


The Heights of Draco Malfoy

by Sivjulicat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauxbatons, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Durmstrang, F/M, Hogwarts, House of Fawley, M/M, Other Characters - Freeform, Time Travel, Uagadou (Harry Potter), Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding History (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), halfoftheinformationisaccurate, halfoftheinformationismadeup, no beta we die like women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-28
Packaged: 2021-04-20 10:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21969106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivjulicat/pseuds/Sivjulicat
Summary: *Summary updates randomly!*..."Our family had that rat for ages, Malfoy. For a decade.""No rat lives more than a decade." Cedric defended.Draco didn't know what prompted Cedric to defend him so frequently, but he did. The furthest they've talked was about Quidditch in Durmstrang, where Draco explained its mechanics to Cedric and passed along Viktor's letters while walking down the corridors."Luna?" Draco crossed an arm over his chest, and rubbed his eyes with another. Draco, she returned with a smile, and tilted her head. If anyone had known how to read her movements without being distracted by the bullshit she spouted, they would've been surprised at her mocking tone."We could simply check with a Revelio as long as the rat can be smuggled out for an hour tomorrow evening.""There's a problem with that plan. Ron lost his rat."The entire group stared at the twins in disbelief."Ron. Lost. His. Rat." Susan parroted, but it sounded more ominous than the fact she'd been repeating other people's words for the past minute....Comments are great appreciated, more than kudos. Please leave a comment!
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Luna Lovegood & Draco Malfoy
Comments: 24
Kudos: 66





	1. Vivian Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Update- Thank you so much for the kudos and reads.

Livinnis Vivian Fall glared at the goblin who handed her a thick golden key.

Vivian thought it would have been easier, certainly, to steal their child from under their noses than to go through the legalities of it all. There was a line to her determination she could muster before Narcissa decided to change her mind, a circumstance much gruelling than the case she had against the child's father, and for a considerate moment before heaving the key against the tinier lock, she wondered whether she should give up her little joys of mischief.

She could shred Lucius, the child's father, to pieces on temporary guardianship considering how far she had buried her bones down in the law school around her seventeenth life.

Narcissa, however.

She was a weaver of society, a fine retainer of people, considering the many acquaintances she could pull out of their occupations and friends to be called from afar. There was one little man from Bulgaria who made his way over to the courtroom when Narcissa demanded a last-minute witness in less than three seconds without knowing what he was walking into. And if that little man had lost some of his composure, Vivian would not have been leafing through papers for an additional day, but alas he was all professional and sharp, and Vivian had to delay the official hearing. Most importantly, she was Narcissa Black, with a house name to her blood and more respect within all things magical.

She did, delightfully, anticipate the joy of the theoretical regards in organising words as it served better evidence than trying to prepare a debate for hours, nonetheless looking for references to which clause and such law. But as her dearest brother had taken over those paper legalities, she had nothing to do but prepare her tongue for a ridiculous exercise.

The manner in which she burdened herself was distasteful.

Vivian dusted her knee-length skirt as the vault clanged open. It was her last bid to convince Narcissa with her wealth, of all things, but her brother had been adamant in pressing upon her some figurative evidence. She stalked in the vault, which held at the forefront a hall of silver linings upon bare walls with an elongated table and chair sufficient to hold an abundant meal of polished black wood in design. There were the continuous rows of shelves she did not deign observing, as it was endless in its existence.

She didn't sit, nor offer Narcissa a reprise from their adventure down the goblin-made tunnels, and stood stoically as she spoke.

"There was never an otherwise for the Blacks and neither for those who became in-laws to such a prestigious line. I may be a descendent of Flamel, but as tied in blood to the Fawleys, and by extension the Blacks, it was either we extended our riches or destroyed it all like the Gaunts." Vivian moved her gaze towards the expressionless woman. "There will always be the if, the hesitance, so allow me to reassure you by this impression."

Vivian looked unimpressed, factually uncaring, of the vault they stood within, perhaps more than the size of her husband's Narcissa had walked into the day before their wedding with her father's assessing leer. The vault was a mansion of displayed wealth, and for a moment Narcissa wondered if outward extravagance should be held with contempt when faced with the grandeur before her, and Vivian's common clothes. She was quite certain, after all, that the glass vase held on the lower second shelf was a hallmark of the Wizarding World's French Magical Committee of Extraneous Affairs, gifted to the German Ministry with their Peace and Unity gifts.

"There is no Fawley married to someone of lower their status, Ms. Fall." Narcissa's voice rang clear, sharp.

"Lower?" Vivian asked.

"Unheard of, as mundane a Fall is in this world."

Vivian could feel her patience wear thin. Kidnapping was certainly under consideration, she thought briefly. She closed her eyes so as to prevent her glare.

"Vivian Fall, the Fall a derivative of Fawley, one which ran to the guide of Grindelwald long before the jester entered court. By all means call me a Fawley, save I have created my own name as by tradition. His accomplishments are so minute compared to the accomplishments of Grindelwald I wish myself under a rock."

"You fear him." Narcissa said, understanding the 'jester' for who she indicated.

"I fear death. The fall of the House of Fawley. Besides, I highly doubt you've ever heard of a younger Flamel other than I?"

"Oh?" Narcissa intoned.

It was a sigh of boredom to its utmost. Vivian felt her fingers twitch. Narcissa had seen her for the past three months they were past acquaintances, and reigning in her body language was becoming harder the more fonder Vivian saw Narcissa's stone face to be. Although fond may not be the most adept description.

Vivian sighed, turning to the rows of glass displays, and frowned at the few rattling boxes to relive her mind.

"You truly cannot be as ignorant as to the casualties of war by your upbringing."

"This is not about him," Narcissa's sharp voice rang, "it is about my son."

A blinding mother's love, Vivian tilted her head, before she found herself understanding Narcissa's misunderstanding. Vivian reigned back another sigh.

"I am not asking for your son. I am asking for your son's safety, Black. You, not your husband."

Black, she emphasised, so as to separate Narcissa from her husband's standing in society. Vivian watched the corner of Narcissa's eyes crinkle and wondered if she had understood.

"I see."

Vivian swallowed a thoughtless word which lingered in the hollowness of her mouth before grudgingly ending the conversation.

"I'll begin the procedures tomorrow, then."

She knew Lucius Malfoy, and where his fingers breached. Hence she was capable of suing, despite the considerable distance between herself and Lucius Malfoy over his sole heir Draco Malfoy on the 1st of December, 1981, when Draco Malfoy had turned slightly over one years and three months.

_(It was, to the date, one month after Lucius Malfoy had been acquitted of serving under the 'Dark Lord', and exactly two weeks after Vivian had began to establish the counter-case against the acquittal on the charges on lack of evidence.)_

...

_1981 December 1st_

The British Ministry of Magic was damp, dark, and grey. There was not much to be seen within its walls, as its important departments lay elsewhere but the ministry in name, hence the word 'courtroom' was more viable as a description. It's magic, still festering, was one Vivian was attuned with. If building could have emotions, and in this world they certainly did, Vivian would have called the building cold, dispassionate, but so complimentary to her own decision making attributions it made sense to revel in it once she stepped foot within.

The ministry was going to be disappointed, she thought, once the war is over.

"Ah, Ms. Fall."

The woman seemed less than pleased to greet her, despite breaking her from her thoughts.

"It is such a bothersome task, I must have you know, to be working around legalities for two months."

"Why," Vivian smiled pleasantly, "it will be over quite soon, don't you think?"

Millicent Bagnold glared at her with displeased eyes, as she knew Vivian was, quite frankly, incapable of succeeding with Narcissa Black refusing to give any evidence nor testimonies. She was pleased to round up Lucius with the others on a brand of a criminal, save she had wished for that, and nothing further.

"You know as well as I do, it will end quite devastatingly."

"Oh, my."

Vivian tilted her head, and her gathered hair fell smoothly on her shoulder. It covered the side of her face from which Millicent Bagnold stood, and quickly forming a grimace at their conversation Vivian smiled once she turned back. Millicent kept on.

"The moment you stepped your pointy toes in British soil, you were bound to our priorities."

Vivian stared for a moment before breathing out a singular laugh. Bagnold looked at her judgementally, and turned to walk down the grey corridor.

"You do realise that you may be tearing apart a perfectly happy family? Their prestige is not something that you can simply look over, as much as their connections, and you will witness yourself from those at those ministry seats, as you should be. What you demand is conflicting even for your own comprehension, as what you mean by temporary guardianship may as well mean indefinite separation."

Her words were degrading, explaining something Vivian herself knew well only reflected her, and the ministry as a whole, perception of the case.

"I demanded nothing of that sort, Millicent. I've never asked them to refrain from any contact, but to only replace their son into a better environment. It is for the best, considering what happened earlier on your tenure."

Millicent Bagnold paused before the courtroom's doors.

"What I do not understand, then, is the reason you seek out a Malfoy. If you are about to adopt an innocent child out of future conflict you may as well start up an orphanage."

"Don't make me consider that seriously Millicent," Vivian whispered as she opened the doors, "I may actually begin a two-year campaign to extract every soul."

Vivian reigned in her snort at such a paling face, then reconsidered her words. If the session was to be successful it was probably possible to begin a campaign of relocating children, yet her brother would be more than willing to twist her neck if she began anything on a larger scale. The horrors of children remained, after all.

She found herself meeting a viper's eyes, one which demanded strangulation. It was a pity, as she had once known the woman as a passing acquaintance. Someone of formal treatment without a second glance.

"No." Millicent hissed before strutting to her seat.

Before the wide, grey courtroom, she sat on the highest throne, as all others watched on in a peacefully hateful silence.

"We will begin the session. Familial hearing of the 1st of December, into disputes claimed under the recent rise of You Know Who and the services of Lucius Malfoy by Vivian Fall, and further claims over the son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, Draco Malfoy. Scribe, Bartemius Crouch, Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, Head of the Registrar of Magical Families and Children, Ophelia Hester-"

Vivian felt a pointed look and turned to find Narcissa staring complacently at her. Profanities welled in her mind, because she had seen the look on desperate people who were, perhaps, before a decision that was not of their own choosing but for their beloved ones. And those decision were mostly ill placed for those on the receiving end.

"Vivian Fall, please submit any further evidence or claims before the procession."

"None."

"Any involved-"

"Narcissa Malfoy." Narcissa spoke.

Lucius turn a lightly troubled gaze towards his wife, even as Vivian snapped her gaze to him with a start. Perhaps she had misread complacency, or she was more tired than she thought she was.

"Lucius Malfoy, please submit any further evidence or claims before the procession."

"None."

It really didn't bode well for neither Vivian nor Lucius when Narcissa had such determination at the forefront, and with sudden compulsion she found herself looking at Lucius with more than strangled features. Certainly, when their eyes met, his dull eyes seemed to confer.

"Proceeding, Narcissa Malfoy, regarding the claims on the 16th of August..."

Well, Vivian leaned back with a startling realisation that she had shared a brief moment with Lucius, this also bode well. With Narcissa, with a court, with herself, something was bound to change in the most twisted manner she wouldn't have been able to place herself.

_(The hearing ended in the late evening, and was recorded as the longest familial hearing of the decade.)_

She would have, both women, found the entire matter more delicate to breach if the child was settled. For example, had Narcissa not birthed him with worries already clouding her mind, torn between family, ideals, and future, Vivian wouldn't have found a place to reach out to her at all, not matter the cause or reason. She would have, instead, targeted the orphan who lived under the stairs and hoped for the better, but when had she taken the easier route?

So Millicent left the courtroom with more than negative emotions towards Vivian, who was attempting to take partially minor custody of a child who had well accomplished parents, both from traditional families, with only Lucius Malfoy's past affiliation being the pin on their coattails. Millicent Bagnold properly, rather purposefully, exclaimed her job well-done but unnecessary when Vivian followed her out.

"Ha. Vivian. My goodness, I would have never seen that coming."

Vivian smiled sinisterly as she strode down the hall. She had not meant to eavesdrop on Millicent Bagnold's self-importance, nor did she wish to agree. She did, however, wish to provoke.

"Oh," Vivian said, "I did. The moment she stared at me when I walked in, I had that notion it would all go below. Down."

Millicent glared.

"I must have you know those are usually reserved for dealings with lawyers outside of court, and that the accuser does not have the right to speak freely with the testifier, and that I've broken so many rules for the two of you, that you should be expecting a charge. At the least a formal warning."

"No one can stop Narcissa Black. I think we have only just began to realise how long a patience she has for the moment to strike."

"Leave, I demand of you."

Her boundless energy never seemed to drain, Vivian thought wryly. But watching Narcissa emerge from the door Vivian displaced Millicent's elbow briefly before turning towards the blond-haired woman.

"By my will, Bagnold. Narcissa."

"Vivian," she returned.

The woman looked infuriatingly calm, considering how many confusions she had caused both her husband and Vivian.

"I would like to go over the finer details," Vivian enunciated, "where the necessary tools for a contract may be."

"Then I must impose, as my husband begins his house arrest."

Vivian slowly angled her foot towards the gates as fireplaces roared to life. It was in indication to leave, although there was much she wished to speak of, and even as they both headed towards one labelled 'South' Vivian could only take notice of Narcissa's freshly worn heel of her boots. It meant anger, by the manner she placed more weight on her heels, perhaps frustration or a temporary loss of composure.

They sat in Vivian's sitting room down Dover between red bricks.

"You are not under his control," Vivian sighed into the air, "and in between the devotions for your husband and your son you know where your loyalties lie. I have taken up a post in Durmstrang as their offer came nearly weeks before, one of the few reasons I wished to conclude our disagreements as quickly as it could be. If you are unsure and I must ask you with certainty, to confirm your connections with my lodgings by your means."

It was to be her son's lodgings, after all, in the possible nearest future where she could find with within her mother's heart to bring forth the initiative of relocation. A quill lay scratching between them.

"There is one thing I wish to ask further of you, as the head of the House of Fawley."

"I must ask you to refrain from calling me that even in the most private settings, Narcissa."

"Vivian." Narcissa restated. "While it is understandable why you are eager in extracting my son out of British soil and the castle in Scotland, and have long come to the understanding of your position, it does create a question as to why it has to be my son."

Vivian sat back, before completely releasing her grasp on the wine glass she had took to her hands for safety.

"I suppose I should not restrain myself. Allow me to reassure you that the following story can be verified, but it is widely rumoured as a folklore in Germany that a destiny exists for every born, a prophecy some may find interesting and others like any other. Most often they are abandoned, even if told, because one simply must forgo thousands of stories for the one vital one, or simply untold as it is deemed unimportant. It is partially my curiosity which has landed your son in the midst of this relocation, but simply put, the House is preparing for the Second Wizarding War, and your son's fate has been quite clinically destroyed in the most positive sense by my hands."

"The House."

Narcissa began, but closed her mouth leaving the statement hanging. To which Vivian found her attentions honed on, as that was as close it could come to stuttering for someone of high upbringing.

"I believe I have already told you everything you must know, and by your oath I can answer more questions you inquire than I could of anyone else." Vivian reassured.

"You have once insisted that the House of Fawley does not involve themselves with outside matters and have not for three generations."

Vivian considered her words.

"We do not, as it guarantees our safety and the safety of our contacts," Vivian sounded the words carefully, "but I have taken a personal interest towards the fate of your child with, as I have insinuated, personal reasons. I will certainly leave his fate in his own hands, however, although I do have a completely different road ready for his taking if he desires."

"Heir."

Vivian nodded.

"Perhaps it may please your husband to know the House of Fawley does not associate themselves with other Houses with no prospective nor fundamental standing. For example, one of my other reasons for taking a personal interest in your son is the family's generations worth of survival. Not as extensive as the Blacks, but weathering through two major wars is a notable difference."

"Is it a similar tradition, then, to take other children as heir?"

"Ah, you've misunderstood something, Narcissa." Vivian smiled gently for the first time, "in all terms of legalities the House of Fawley does not exist. Which means, whoever is the next head of the House of Fawley will never be known as one."

Narcissa looked convinced, although it was well hid. Their conversation was coming to a close. A conversation which altered the fate of so many, yet so little in its ripples.

"And to emphasise,"Vivian added airily, "only nine living people, including you, know of me as Livinnis Vivian Fawley. All others have only heard of our reputation, and I promise you, it can be utilised to the greatest effects."


	2. Erlnier Fawley

"There has not been a massive war in this region for the past year discounting the abrupt breakout of Weres in Switzerland, and the public protest against the sealing of MACUSA's records our most recent, not the one in England, dark lord's imprisonment and the changes of wardens in the process of his outbreak. Not, that the information was crucial to the whole affair but the actions were taken as a political manoeuvre which in turn, by the expressions on some of your faces, angered many of your parents and relatives and perhaps yourselves.

No debates on political issues in class, however, unless you are to personally demand an individual meeting with me in my sleep afterwards. But the most recent legislation, if you look at the thirteenth clause of the recent act passed by the French Ministry of Magic, limits the entries into the country as well as in similarity the twenty-third deportation act by-"

"Professor Fall."

Vivian opened her eyes, which had closed in partial agitation while she had talked on of political changes within different ministries, and found the headmaster at the door. She came to her feet with practised poise and pointedly glanced once towards Pot, her eagle, who blinked its eyes at the students, who in turn resumed their scratching.

"It is uncommon to see you so flustered from your morning trip from the owls, headmaster, considering how many tears there are to your buttons I would have assumed you were attacked."

The headmaster stood a foot away from her, as any other would have done. It was her requested space, as she always noted in her introductions to classes and other people of all sorts.

"Vivian. There has been a guest knocking at my door for the past half of the hour and I swore I would have had him removed. The only thing which bound him to the seat before my desk is his insistence on your acquaintance, as he claims he is the liaison, of all things, between the French government and French ministry, you know the difference."

"Breathe, Karkaroff."

"If you can remove him I suggest you do so at once."

"I will. Breathe."

He turned furiously on his heels at her mocking and clucked his heels away.

She turned down the halls, as his office was in the leftmost wing. There were tapestries covering the wood walls and floors, hovering lights which lighted the passageways passed and dimmed when no presence was in sight. But what Vivian found the most amusing, was the space and time ripped dimensions. She turned to the nearest wall which was without the most deliberate hint of difference and stepped through, only to appear on the third floor's corridor of mirrors, falling out of the rectangular mirror on the ceiling.

It was strange to note how dimensional travels were considered an act of the dark arts when apparation, apparently, was not.

Whoever decided to judge Durmstrang by its wooden exterior and rumours she pitied.

"Owen, I would have asked you to stay away." Vivian greeted as she entered the headmaster's office.

"Sister, I have requested him here for the sole purpose of this report. You don't have a say."

Vivian looked up towards the desk, surprised at her brother's voice, only to find two men pouring over a map which travelled across the breadth of the desk and floor and some more.

"Jason? You do know this is not public property." She said tiredly as she stalked towards the two.

"Good morning, Ms. Fall." Owen lifted his head and fixed a smile.

"Evening, Owen." She replied.

"No pleasantries, please, I need him someplace else."

Vivian turned to her brother with distaste, as she quite disliked rushing into matters without the pleasure of second guessing what the other had prepared. Especially when the map seemed to be as long as the conversation would be. The ink black hair of Owen fell into disarray as he rubbed his face into his hands, his golden glasses frame dislocated before falling back into place.

"There has been some changes in Russia, Ms. Fall. I've only told Jason about how the peace seems to be progressing on the muggle side before he decided to verify how far it came along himself. But yesterday morning before sunrise there were two diplomats killed in the English headquarters. Jason had arrived near the northern borders at sunrise when the warning alarm went off, and at exactly 10 o' clock in the morning the lock-down was announced."

"The problem is," Jason interfered, "I couldn't place the exact date of their time of deaths because I was to busy figuring out how to extract Owen from the French headquarters."

Vivian closed her eyes and sighed before glaring at her brother.

"And you've been discussing in a quiet and safe manner I assume?"

"I've already cancelled the magic on anything I felt. Which means this whole room is quite objectified." Jason nodded his head.

"There goes our Russian spies. Any replacements?"

"Yes," Jason conceded, "but the problem is that we're severely lacking information on this side. Where he's recovering, that is. He could be moving more quickly considering he has the assurance of remaining under the Statue of Secrecy."

"We have six more years to place everyone in their positions before it begins. Not nearly enough time, but we should be able to narrow down his current trajectory."

"I'll head back to France for now," Owen said, "I'll keep you informed."

"Right, thank you, Owen."

Vivian watched the green flames leap before turning her wary sight on her brother.

"Must you?"

"He's the only person who is involved in both worlds down there. I would say he's the best and only option we have until you can track down another person who's ever so willing to cross between the two without reluctance only for the sake of gathering information that would be sitting in the dust for another five years."

Vivian rolled her eyes, something she only ever did before her brother, and sat down.

"If we are ever planning to drag Erlnier into this, we should do so now. It seems to be the best time. What did we use to call it before? The last mile of peace?"

"Yes. You won't have much time on your hands after all, so it's about time you delegate responsibilities and, perhaps, dislodge Karkaroff off his perch." Jason smiled.

"We are to figure out a way to break it to him, then. I seem to orbit around that child, my duties and jobs are all falling out of place." Vivian sighed into her hands, "so it has to be Narcissa."

...

_1987 July 16th_

"Darling."

"Mother!"

Erlnier trembled lightly.

"A word."

Erlnier slowly nodded in agreement before removing himself from the older student's pitiful gazes. Her tone, which had carried across the bustling hall, had ceased the endless conversations quite as abruptly as she had appeared, despite the fact that she had not shouted. He chased after her disappearing figure through a wall, and halted at the strange oriental design greeting his first hesitant steps.

Erlnier blinked once at the room, before finding Aunt Vivian prim against the chair.

"Aunt Vi." He said in confusion.

"Erlnier. We've a conversation to do." She turned from her tea with a green twinge and tilted her head.

She paused, bid both his mother and himself to sit, and upon their silence opened her mouth hesitatingly. Erlnier grasped at the mood feebly, as it wasn't what he had been expecting nor what he had experienced. This was a mixture of those private lessons Aunt Vivian often gave, in the same tension of fear and solemnity.

"I must emphasise, Draco, that you have the choice to deny or accept the offer I make you this moment. And like any other forms of contract we've gone over, I'd like you to take this by detail," she eyed his straightening posture, and continued with a sigh.

"As with some overturned decisions days ago, we've come to the realisation that we've unintentionally nurtured a level of observation within you that would not be taken delightfully by others. You've noticed that we've monitored, or at the very least, led you to certain actions and decisions, therefore constricting you in some ways."

Erlnier's eyes gleamed, but he nodded.

"I am certain it must have been the vaguest impressions upon you, but seven this year."

Vivian paused.

"Yet it is precisely because you felt so that I must commend you, and therefore expand upon this instinct you have so as to grant you a weapon of your liking."

Vivian sighed once more, and Erlnier looked up quizzically.

"The House of Fawley," Vivian drawled out and took a breath, "the House of Fawley has inherited through generations a network larger than any ministry could achieve. When the magical world first went into hiding, the House of Fawley were the last descendants to maintain a connection to the other world, people known through governments and descendants of Royal Houses in that age, friends who've helped and been given help in equal measures. Of course, our founder went by a different name. What I can assure, however, is that our House falls from the beginning of the separation to this day, by Jason's heritage."

"So Uncle Jason is special?" Erlnier gasped.

Vivian gathered her wits and smiled.

"I don't think you understand the enormity of what I've told you, but yes. He is very special. To continue, the House of Fawley has remained silent ever since the separation of this world, to both worlds in both high and low places. One has been a king, another a slave, a few in the ministries, and several others. Their names all differ, and if you are not a member of this house by blood or by heritage, I believe no outsider would ever be able to trace our members down."

"So, you know a lot of people? Like the aurors?"

Vivian nearly breathed in her tea.

"Oh, my. You do scare me sometimes. No, Erlnier, not everyone, unfortunately. And we are commoners. Common wizards and witches you can spot easily on any street of any Wizarding World. What sets us apart, I suppose, is that we tend to know."

"Know what?"

"Know everything." Vivian's smile faded into a wry twist.

Narcissa tapped her finger, and Vivian continued.

"The first war for wizards within their kind came from a testament of strength. In a time where muggles and wizards could co-exist, muggles created an environment where one life was insufficient to ranks, gold, and a plethora of other reasons. For being strong, you could kill the weak. For being weak, you had to grovel to remain alive. Dark magic rampaged, and, as the balance of order and chaos tilted, the wizards became weak to the human's machinations, the Salem Witch Trials occurred. It was our defeat at their hands that we hid. Not, I assure you, due to any other reason."

Vivian poured more tea, a tinge of green thickening.

"I suppose, in muggle terms, this was the point where everything was dark. But when the two worlds were separated and the remains of wizards and witches licked their wounds in peace, the first imposer of the Statue of Secrecy, Josiah Jackson, appeared as the leader of MACUSA on American soil. Then, came the British with the Law Enforcement Acts, the French with International Relations, and so on. You should note, if you are ever in need out of trouble, that Gondulphus Grave's real name happens to be Nojan Fawley."

Erlnier's questioning look drew another long sip for Vivian.

"The second major war came in the form of conflicting ideals. In fact, I believe it should be more accurate to say that it had been a festering wound, this war, and was bound to bleed at some point at another, only triggered by Gellert Grindelwald in full. In such small and congested place, people are bound to find their voices heard more quickly, and the Wizarding Worlds became divided into muggle-friendly, muggle-extermination, or muggle-ignorance. Nojan's Fawley's second great-grandson pulled some weight in the MACUSA, but was held under surveillance by our fourteenth head of the House of Fawley, Imnacus Fawley, otherwise known as Dominique Dupuis. He was, after all, the enemy."

Vivian eyed the confused boy pitifully, and got to the point.

"I'm the forty-seventh head of the House of Fawley, Erlnier. And I'm offering you the position of heir, because there's another war brewing. I believe you understand, at least minutely, that our House has been involved in all wars both muggle and wizarding as long as the effects exist. I am, I suppose, practically appointing you to be the one in charge of the upcoming second wizarding war if you'd ever accept this position."

"But, Aunt Vi," Erlnier whispered, "I'm seven."

"The earliest recorded was when Hectiva Fawley adopted Regulus Black the First as the thirtieth heir at the age of four. It's a wonder she managed to do that, at least, considering how irresponsible she was."

"Why are there so many Heads of House?"

Vivian paused.

"We couldn't go by generation. Four died during the first separation, one during the conflict in an assassination, a few of illnesses, most stepped down, five during Grindelwald's era, and one stepped down before Jason, and Jason stepped down for me."

"Five were killed?" Narcissa asked.

Vivian slowly nodded, with hesitance.

"Perhaps. Not that exact number as there has been two disappearances I cannot count for. They were murdered because they were actively adjoined with the action. It was not until Jason's father decided to take the informative approach to the entire matter that the House of Fawley saw some calm."

"What will I be doing, then?"

"You will be like any other child running the halls of this institute, Erlnier. Simply more, well, knowledgeable. We have taken a hold of past generation's and century of history and watched over four major wars, the Salem, the riot of Grindelwald, his end, and the first wizarding war. It will become your responsibility to know everything of need about the upcoming fifth war."

"So, I just need to know, and not interfere, because everyone else died because they interfered because they know a lot?"

Vivian tilted her head.

"You make it sound so easy, dear."

"Aunt Vi, your plan for me sounds quite solid. I see no reason why I shouldn't do it as long as my mouth cooperates with me."

Aunt Vivian looked wary of his presumptuous words although she did not deny his silent accusation that she may as well have already begun the necessary educational steps towards the position she was enlisting him into. Sometimes, Erlnier forgot he spoke with a control over his language arts until an adult would turn a strange inquisitive eye on his running mouth. Sometimes, he disregarded his age.

"Allow me to repeat; you may as well deny this offer."

"I really see no point."

His mother was sipping her tea continuously in their little tryst.

"Then," Aunt Vivian spoke with finality, "let us compromise by having you experience what this offer entails. It will not be late to speak of your thoughts afterwards. You must admit to the fact that a seven year old's single experience will not be able to unravel the tale of a thousand years."

"A tale? You expect me to gain experience by reading a tale?"

Aunt Vivian threw a sharp glare at his continuous sarcastic comments before tapping her nail once, firmly, on the table.

"No, Erlnier. You will live through them, each and every one, as on the scene and becoming the very person yourself robbed of your own will. I will bring you everything I could possibly offer, from pensieves to altered time-turners. You will be subjugated to the very memories and experiences of the previous heads of the House of Fawley which may leave you traumatised without your own stable piece of opinion and mind, a characteristic if you will, to accept the experience as simply a relic than a nightmare."

He distantly found his mouth gaping.

"So we will begin shaping your opinions today." Aunt Vivian finished.

...

On the fifteenth of March, Vivian appeared on the outskirts of a village in Denmark, and travelled up the yellow path of red fences under pouring rain. A moderate house of white with grey triangular roof was soaked with the others, from green to blue. She placed a black gloved hand on the white fence, and did not move within.

"Is it locked?" A voice asked behind her.

Vivian turned to shoot a dry smile at the woman.

"Obviously, Catherine. It is rather easy to lock a fence from the outside."

Catherine, the possessor of vivid golden hair which tumbled down in damp tangles behind her, crossed her arms.

"Yes, well, you were standing there like a statue."

Vivian turned exasperatedly and pushed the fence. It swung open immediately, and Vivian stood still once more. She could hear Catherine's impatient sigh, as much as the rain battered at her brown waterproof coat. There were no signs of chipped wood, or torn grass. She walked further inside the lawn.

There was nothing. Not even the most gentle marks of a shoe print washed by the rain, or a stone out of place in the path.

"Move faster, Vivian." Catherine narrowed her blue eyes.

"There is nothing. At all." Vivian whispered.

"Is that not what I told you? I swore to you that the person is not an _invalid_, the only trace left is the picked lock, he is a _mage_!"

"_Invalid?_ I didn't know you learned Norwegian. And you are right. It is a man, and he picked the lock. As you've said, there is no method of crossing the lawn without leaving any trace at all."

Vivian leaned forward and wiped her thumb over the scratches over the iron handle.

"Yes, well. I told you to set _protections_ but did you listen?" Catherine waved a silent spell over her drenched clothes.

"I thought you would have taken care of the house, as you quite practically enter this place whenever you wish." Vivian slid her eyes towards her.

Catherine's cheeks turned lightly red, and her blue eyes which remained sparkling even between the grey skies and the shadows of the clouds gleamed brighter. It was quite astounding how her beauty was flawless when she claimed to have done nothing to her skin. She clenched a fist against her green summer dress and glared.

"Vivian. I am not your housekeeper. You've only given me a worthless key which can barely slide into the house on the best of days, and even if I do enter it is for the sake of dusting and clearing the mould from your walls. To fill the void of no presence for over ten years and I-"

"Yes, yes. I know, save I swear to have never placed that curtain there."

"That curtain is because the old one faded-"

"Yes, I see. Why don't we step inside now, if you've remembered to bring the key?"

Vivian smiled at Catherine's face struggling to swallow a scream.

The house did not have any electricity, as it was simply a house. No running water, no gas, no installed cables, to which Catherine brought out a lamp and several other candles which reflected off strategically placed mirrors. Surprisingly, there was no dust, and Vivian took note to thank Catherine in her own manner of gratitude.

"Explain, Vivian. I swear I had expected the worst when you asked me to check if this house had burned down while I was on an excursion in Norway. No explanations, front or back. Do you know I cancelled a perfectly exquisite date for this?"

Catherine pulled off her brown boots, placed another cleaning charm across her clothes and hair, and gathered her hair. She had turned to Vivian as she had done so, extending a warming charm over.

"I offered you my brother, didn't I? You turned me down too many times I've lost count."

"Your brother," Catherine replied with horrified eyes, "has no time to waste on any other human being on earth save you, and I would be disgusted the moment I see him with anyone else because none can possibly be within the same league he stands in."

"Oh, I never knew you had placed me on a pedestal."

Catherine looked tongue-tied, until she frowned and snapped a change of topic. Smiling, Vivian sat on the wooden chair.

"There's been someone going around trying to find something from us. Owen sent me a note yesterday saying he did not know whom, exactly. I've been busy organising some private educational practice I failed to notify everyone to double back."

"How is Rachel, and Alexandra?" Catherine leaned forward.

Vivian was startled out of the tea she had reached for, something she had been pulling out of her brown suitcase, and laughed.

"I always forget you have gone out of your way to acquaint yourself with them. They are fine, healthy as ever. If anything, I believe Rachel may have a husband by next year. They had such a romantic atmosphere."

Catherine dragged her hand across her eyes, and moaned.

"Oh, yes, I've seen them in a picture. I have burned it."

"Jealousy," Vivian clucked her tongue, "the demise of beauty."

"Says you." Catherine replied.

She seemed to scan Vivian, to which Vivian turned in her seat to cross her legs in display. Straight black hair done up neatly with brown eyes which turned gold when sunlight allowed, pale skin without a blemish, and a body that was proportionally right. Catherine's eyes returned to Vivian's smirk and she snorted.

"You act all poised now, but I've seen you without a single inch of that self confidence."

"Are we truly dragging up our history?" Vivian raised a brow.

Catherine paled before turning to snatch up Vivian's tea, and Vivian teasingly suppressed a smile at her friend of fourteen years once more.

"I will show you my nephew's recent picture. Sit."

She watched as Catherine conceded, and sat back.

"He's grown," Vivian pointedly began, "I've been showing him the trial for his guardianship I've participated in but seven years ago. He was particularly taken with the subject, and decided to approach his father with Jason's aid. I did not expect that to be his first course of action, but it's an improvement, don't you think?"

Vivian watched Catherine's mouth fall open even as she hesitated in tearing her eyes off the picture, a scene of inflated cheeks which accompanied a heavily pouting mouth.

"Your belief that people grow by experience has finally led your own ward to his destruction," Catherine said as she finally watched the psychopath before her, "at least you did not kill him outright." She whispered.

"I think you are mistaking my oversight on a probability as an intended manipulation," Vivian mused, "I only offered him a taste of what lies ahead of him."

"Oversight." Catherine whispered incredulously. "You mean, intended oversight."

"I am attempting to refrain from allowing his impulse to drive him headfirst into the position. But I did hope, despite the conclusions he may inevitably come to, greeting his own father would give Erlnier quite the adventure."

"You mean, implanting a trauma."

"Now that he has begun, albeit not in the best of ways, I am stalling to give Erlnier some time to accept what situations he may face in the near future."

"Brainwashing."

Vivian finally fixed a glare at Catherine.

"I am lesser than Grindelwald, at least, because I did not cause this entire ordeal and simply watched it happen."

"And I've heard one say that a bystander is worse than the instigator of a purpose." Catherine replied, and began to recite:

"_Doing nothing, when you have the power to do something, is worse than committing murder, because there is an infinite amount of possibilities your presence could have caused. A life dead, a life saved._"

Silence ensued, and in the midst of it Catherine found it within herself to finish her drink. Her heart trembled, as she did not wish to offend Vivian despite their loving insults towards each other.

"You remember every word." Vivian finally spoke.

"Well, it is what brought me out of my seclusion." Catherine replied in relief.

Perhaps her relief shone, or Vivian had known her for too long, but she smiled in further reassurance and finished her tea.

"Do you object to it wholeheartedly?" Vivian asked.

Catherine was startled at the request of her own opinion, because she did, as a matter of fact, respect Vivian and had placed her on a pedestal. But she did snap immediately at Vivian's hesitant inquiry.

(She knew Vivian was never the one to give away her emotions quite as visibly as she was now if it weren't done in sincerity. If she were to object Vivian would stop and repent.)

"No. You could have given him a peaceful life, but I will not object to the growth of the future heir. To each their own, and ourselves our beloved. I'm not opposed to having a hand in his growth, however."

Vivian was impressed, but ultimately said, "you've grown quite emotional, Catherine."

She watched her friend's face turn red and smiled, mostly in endearment.


	3. Miss Catherine Bluard

In a room of black mahogany shelves reaching across the walls and towards the glass ceiling above, Vivian and Jason shared a white leather fainting couch. The room itself could have been mistaken for an antique shop, if Vivian had been further careless about the decorations when she had first come across it as it had only suffered marginal changes with her reluctance. Feet propped upon Jason and her head resting against the miniature fort of pillows she observed her brother's intense concentration towards the book in his hands and found it fitting to disturb him.

"It's a wonder you manage to end up in such families every single time."

Jason grunted at the disturbance to such tranquillity. The dust shifted, Jason resigned himself to setting his book apart in a moment's notice as he folded a page's corner.

"To think, the House of Fawley was so valuable that it would foster one its own."

Jason threw the book towards a shelf, knowing it would place itself rather gently in the place he had found it. He glared at his sister for her disruption before settling to rub her foot.

"My parents always seem to possess the same qualities. Intelligent, to a fault, and silently demonstrative in their powers without a single noticeable aspect to the outside scrutiny." Jason silently pressed against her sole. "I've simply extrapolated, and you've made it a larger deal than it was. My father had ingrained grandfather's doctrines into me you'd be glad I had a mind of my own, else I'd have murdered you for suggesting an adoption."

"It isn't an adoption, it is temporary relocation."

Vivian spoke with derision as Jason began to rotate her ankles.

"Whatever you call it, you've caused a change."

A snap echoed crisply across the room, to which Vivian tilted her head towards and Jason ignored. Two figures, a woman and a young boy, materialised before bleeding into a coloured figure. Catherine dug her heels into the stone floor before stabilising Erlnier, who, in a fit of dizziness swayed dangerously in the place he landed, as reflective of the unhealthy pallor to his skin with a disturbing crease to his face, but Vivian didn't comment. Jason rubbed his thumb into her left foot.

"By Merlin's soul, set yourself straight. I have no more reassurances to offer you." Catherine snapped.

She harshly tugged Erlnier to the nearest chair, which was the couch opposite the fainting couch and produced a chocolate eclair to stuff in the boy's mouth.

"I expected you to have prepared him better. If simply going over the first few manipulations of G.G. before his temporary capture would traumatise him I suggest wiping his memory and leaving him in his mother's hands."

"Narcissa Black, Catherine, is occupied weaving a very productive blanket for her dear son."

Catherine finally removed her brown coat and sat with a distinct scepticism across her features.

"You've convinced her too?"

"With several designs and curses."

Vivian pushed herself upright. Jason slowly shook out his hand before leaning over to observe Erlnier who had returned to a healthier flush without the disorientation, but had not been able to comprehend the conversation around him with his lacking grasp on his mentality.

"Regulate your breathing," he whispered silently as the women behind him talked on, "in beats of fours, threes, and fours."

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that Malfoy the senior would have a higher sway amongst the members of the court than yourself? All you've managed to do was to place him in his house, and I'd have rather placed him with Sirius Black. He will walk out of there sane, and with vengeance." Catherine tugged the strands of her hair.

"Now that you've mentioned it. We had a moment of brief ceasefire, Lucius and I, when Narcissa started to take over the court proceedings. The moment Narcissa started to speak our eyes met in a deeper understanding than I would like to admit, the fact being that there will be no gains for us with herself at the forefront. She's the one who placed Lucius under lock and key, and the one who stole my title of guardian and labelled me a cousin. She may as well have added me to her family tapestry."

Without further output, Catherine sighed.

"Miss Bluard?"

Erlnier slowly struggled to grasp his words as Catherine turned to him with her blue eyes ablaze. Even when he had been first introduced to her against the fireplace, her golden hair had seemed streaked with fire.

"Yes, Draco."

"I was wondering if you had gone through the same experience." He asked sluggishly.

"Of course. I was dragged by my hair, leashed by my grandmother and pushed by Vivian until my own magic decided to turn on me and put me through a year's hell."

Draco did not understand.

"What she means, Draco," Aunt Vivian started with exasperation, "is that I knew her grandmother. The witch of illusions and imagery, legilimens and occlumency, the sole person who could beat me in the magic of memory altercations and mind. She entrusted Catherine before entering her own seclusion away from the magical society, as we both knew her granddaughter was much more gifted by birth. But Catherine herself-"

"If you feel well enough to talk about my past, I'd say you have enough strength to pull out some more memories."

Vivian controlled her amused gaze before nodding, and twirling her index finger, pulled out a blue thread near her head.

"Now, let me tell you a secret. It is a perceived notion in the magical society to use such fragments of memory in a special container, like Pensieves. Catherine uses the same theory in application, but rather drags the person in the replicate dimension of her own memories seemingly within herself. If it is not by her will, a person may remained trapped in Catherine's memories for the rest of their lives. That's the power of a replicated memory. But it's rawest form comes from the memory itself, which is what I hold, here. And placing this in another person's head-"

"You're going to kill him." Catherine snorted.

"If you could stop interrupting me, I will be able to prepare Draco before inflicting any damages on his mental state."

When Catherine purposely clinked her teaspoon against the cup, Jason rolled his eyes quite pointedly behind his sister for Draco to see and hide a smile at.

"This would leave an impression on my head but not a solid memory, and a stronger memory in yours but foreign. As raw as it is, I'd have to remove it from you after you've assimilated it in your own head. And by that point the memory, having gone through two receptions, would be useless."

"A stronger memory but foreign?" Draco echoed.

"Like remembering a dream much clearly, much vividly, and forever."

Draco frowned.

"Like the dream I had of flying."

"Yes."

"Flying?" Catherine leaned forward, interested.

"He flew without a broom in his dream, Catherine. Now settle, please, this is not your preparatory school. Draco, this certain memory is probably the last interaction I had with the conductor of France's Northern train stations on the day of Grindelwald's death. There will be dead bodies, and something you'd probably find interesting to see. Do remember, the memory will _be_ yours, but _from_ me. Do you understand?"

And before Draco could nod or indicate a reply, Vivian pressed her finger against the forefront of his head.

_The day was bitingly cold, and burrowing strongly into his jacket Draco checked the heels of his shoes once more. The blade was uncomfortable against his waist, and he would have pulled it up if it had not been for the trickle of blood running south against his soles. There really wasn't much time._

_The station was another hue of grey, save the few yellow bricks which jutted out unevenly between the casts. He kneeled on a knee to observe the conductor who was leaning against the left gate, the source of the flowing blood with his turned out intestines from his skin, and was surprised when he found him coherent._

_"Brian."_

_The conductor opened his eyes. Draco sighed at the damp uniform, before waving his hand and reorganising him into a much appealing mess, which was putting his intestines where it was meant to be. Brian seemed to recognise him, and smiled weakly. It would have been an handsome one had his teeth still been in place._

_"Late. As always."_

_He had to lean in to hear Brian's words, but soon flinched back._

_"What do you mean, late? I'm not meant to be here, you're not meant to be here. I've no idea why you insisted on replacing an empty shift when I so explicitly told you to stay away from this damned station repeatedly."_

_There was a ringing silence. Draco sighed, and closed his eyes, hearing his heart beat to the rhythm of Brian's staggering breaths._

_"I love her."_

_"Yes, I know."_

_"I love her too."_

_"Yes."_

_"Are they safe?"_

_Draco listened to the pulsing familiarity at the edges of his conscience and nodded._

_"Your wife's home, and your daughter's at school. They're safe."_

_And he held Brian's hand as he closed his eyes, blinking slowly and unable to say something, despite his gaping mouth. But he looked happy even as the last breath left him, which had become so rare in the recent months._

_Draco blinked, and gathered himself as he stood to enter the platform. The walls were crumbling the further he went, and he ignored the unknown faces he stepped over, and some limbs he had to step on where there was no room. He had never seen the platform so red._

_"Hello?" He called out._

_There was nothing in reply, so he thinned his magic some more and swept over each and every body before accepting there was none._

_He lit the remaining darkness with a strongly suspended lumos, before finding the bodies, plastered against the wall in curves and lines. He blinked several times, allowing his brain to register what was before him, before stepping back several times to read the entire message._

_"Heed my call." He read._

_With a temporary impairment to his judgement, he couldn't decide whether the situation was recoverable. Despite this station being one of the many barriers between the two worlds, the bodies had torn down the barrier with its curses and blood. Dark or light, an abundance of magic was bound to effect the surroundings in ways that even he could not predict._

_Draco's eyes caught a figure as he surveyed the area, and stifling a gasp he strode towards it in desperation. His voice was caught someplace unknown, and his heart thudded in his head for longer than he wished. Such a reaction had not occurred to him for so long, he stood frozen until his jaws came unlocked._

_"By all souls, Septimus," he breathed out, "what am I going to tell your son?"_

_The golden hair, half matted red, fell strand by strand into his hands as he gathered the body. He read the words again, and recognising a child's figure as one of it's compositions, turned his eyes elsewhere only to find the path he had come from, and the vague silhouette of Brian by the gate._

_He closed his eyes._

"Wait!" Draco startled himself with a shout.

His aunt's hand, which he now recognised had been weaving through the strands of his hair, flinched away as rapidly as he sat up in the present. She stared at him with a questioning gaze, Uncle Jason leaning beyond a side of the nearest bookshelf in curiosity. Miss Catherine seemed long gone, as night had fallen.

"I don't understand, that was the 1700's! That was my great-great grandfather, wasn't it? You weren't even born!"

"Stop shouting." Uncle Jason pressed out.

Aunt Vivian intervened before Draco could shout his indignant remarks.

"I believe I told you the House of Fawley keeps its records in a hereditary manner."

She watched his lost gaze and fluttering hands, and grabbed them before it knocked the nearest glass to the floor.

"I have similarly been passed down certain memories of the past, to the furthest possible to the most recent. That is what I have given you. Past time, that memory will become yours, the experience similarly familiar. The only dangers to such a method would be your own misconceptions." Vivian whispered gently.

Jason slowly approached their couch, his left hand holding a thick volume. Vivian grabbed his attention with soft snaps of her fingers, as Draco's eyes had wandered, and continued.

"If you mistake such a memory as your own, and not an inherited one, it may become easier for you to fall into the very habits that the previous head had, losing your own personality. When faced with a conflict of the past and the present, it's important to accept what is but remember the facts of then. Do you understand?"

Draco didn't.

But a finger brushed against his temple, and with a heavy heart and mind, he drifted rapidly into sleep.

...

"He was in denial." Jason stated as he removed his hand.

"Yes. The only safe thought his mind could focus on was the difference of age, and even that tore on him. I've never seen him so aggravated."

She watched her brother frame the sleeping boy over his back and slowly moved to help intertwine the boy's legs within the arms. She was worried but not guilty.

"Your memory was worse than what Catherine could have presented. He bore it well."

They laid him across the blue and white shades of his bed and closed the teal curtains. And as they rearranged themselves, she glanced at the book in his hands, an index, and frowned.

"How far back have you traced our debts?"

"Lestrange."

Vivian's gaze shot up in surprise, before nodding.

"As expected of you and your tenacity. Should I track down the Gaunts' life debts? You've been hanging on to that book for the past three days, I'm surprised it hasn't fallen apart. If you've gone as far back as the Lestranges, then I suppose the Gaunts will only be a few conjectures away. Stay with Draco."

"There's not much I can do for him."

"I'm not asking you to ease his dreams. Just be there when he wakes up from a nightmare, or hold his hand when he starts whimpering. Or if you can't get anymore friendlier, just sit there. I'm sure you'd have plenty of practice watching someone sleeping."

Jason silently expressed his displeasure. Vivian scowled.

"Then stay, and wait. I'll get the rest of the papers from your study, and bring it here to keep you company as you keep Draco company."

By the time Jason had finally settled on the nearest armchair, watching Draco clutch onto his stuffed dragon with a frown, he was already assaulted with memories of his own son.

The lack of his parenting, the regrets and guilt of what could have been.

Of green eyes and a silent smile, and the first steps he had witnessed.

"As usual, you never stop thinking."

At the familiar language, Jason blinked once before instinctively replying. Vivian's scowl hadn't moved an inch out of place, even as she leaned the stack of papers against the door-frame.

"And you never do."

"If you're thinking of them, you should know they're fine. You saw them with your own eyes, brother. You should stop associating young boys to your son, the sight of your gaze makes me consider another approach to your personality. A paedophile, was it called?"

"How vulgar. Are you imagining things, now?"

Vivian nearly scoffed, but contained it as Draco stirred. Judging by the blankets which were now wrapped around his ankle, he had had a fit that Jason had failed to note. She silently levitated a wooden stool after leaving the pile in Jason's hands, and talking up a pen, turned to the nearest leaf in reach.

"I have talked to Ross, he agreed to make a move by the end of this week. Karkaroff wouldn't disagree with dual signatures of both the German and Northern European Union, but his protest may be more violent than what Ross expects. I've been searching for the previous four headmasters' wills. Tell me if you find something notable."

"Karkaroff has his own authority. You are attempting to sway a private institute which is kept separate from much domain with but the support of those in-bred families."

"Which is why I sent Pot to disturb Narcissa as much this week. I believe he broke at least three of her tea sets by the china in his talons."

"She approves of Chartres de Barr?"

"Karkaroff himself isn't well established, no matter how much connection he can claim with the Dark Lord. As of now, where he has escaped a trial by the teeth of his skin, I would have to agree with Narcissa that he has disgraced himself. She said, and I quote: "I'd have stripped him of his own skin had he crawled any further in his own cowardice." Which is surprising, considering the future I had watched."

"Which would be?"

"Her husband and son shares the same air as Karkaroff."

"Ah, she's a Black by heart."

"Yes. Blacks. Sometimes I wonder if magic itself had twisted their genetics into becoming a stubborn breed. Like hounds, that house, one bite and they never let go."

"You've set the date for Karkaroff's execution, what about the others? Might as well fell the one in Scotland, too."

"I don't have such a strong grip on Hogwarts, you know the reason. But Beauxbaton... I wonder, sometimes. Perhaps, or perhaps not. It won't be wrong to have more ties. The war is contained in the European continent, as far as I can recall, but there should have been impacts worldwide. If I can conduct the traffic in and out of this country, Draco may be able to find it easier to move when he takes over."

"I've more than enough connections for international relations. Organising the traffic won't take long, what will concern you will be the newspapers."

"Yes. Dumbledore's croons." Vivian sighed.

Draco woke to Miss Catherine's face peering into his eyes, and his shout was held back with a finger pressing sharply into the back of his tongue. He managed to hold back his second instinct, which was to bite down on the foreign intrusion as he gagged, but as his drool pooled in the cave of his mouth Catherine pulled out her finger and shook it with distaste. She ignored his indignant look as she spoke:

"When stopping someone from making an instinctive noise, there are two options. It is between your regard as to which you should do. If you'd rather the person alive, simply give them another shock by the means of a finger, and if you'd rather the person dead, aim for their throat with the nearest object and press as hard as you can within a second. If neither is plausible, simply kiss them, and swallow their sound."

There was many, many things Draco wished to say in protest of her explanation, beginning with the annoyance he could feel in the manner she wiped her finger off his handkerchief by the nearest stool. Miss Catherine gazed at his efforts in holding his tongue back, and smiled.

"I'm glad you've had your manners well-taught. Is it your mother? Vivian would have taught you to bite the finger off."

Draco nodded to both of her statements.

"Yes, yes, Vivian would have." A bitter expression crossed Catherine's face.

In the momentary lapse of conversation, Draco started at a voice he thought was his own cry. And even as he blinked, sitting back, he could feel Miss Catherine's intent gaze upon him with a shrewd observing glare that rivalled Aunt Vivian's silent reprimands.

"You've a suppressed post-traumatic stress disorder. Not a disorder well known, mind, the war's only just recovered. You have no sessions today, but to remain with me. Let us talk over breakfast, we have much to go over."

"Have you..." Draco mumbled, "have you been talking to me so constantly to stop me from."

He stopped abruptly, because by the softening of her eyes he could tell his assumption wasn't off, and all that alerted him to the last misjudgement of his was Catherine's down-turned mouth which had yet to fade. She inclined her head slightly as if conceding him an answer.

"Not to stop you from remembering, as we would have to dissect what memory you may have recalled minutely. But I did not wish for you to break down since the beginning of a new day, especially when I am to sacrifice my own breakfast for your emotional stability. No, I was not forced and I do not blame you, but Jason's glare can bring a world to it's knees, I'd have you know. I do not understand why Vivian thinks of him and any other women a good match."

"A good match?" Draco repeated.

"Like lovers. She has a strong belief that Jason must relieve his sexual needs someplace else when she is right by him."

What Draco had learned, in his few interactions with his mother and various conversations with the wizarding world at large, was that the people within the House of Fawley was in no manner conservative in their opinions contrary to the current society, or reserved in their speech behind closed doors. To those they considered an ally, they spoke without reservation, whether it be Sir Owen, or Miss Catherine. They had a common trait of holding their tongue outside, but made it known sooner or later of their own, surprisingly little, opinions.

In fact, if it hadn't been for the fact that their loyalty lay with the House he would have thought they could have accepted the ideals of all sorts. They treated criminals in the same tongue they treated ministers, and once discussed Grindelwald's preferred lover in all but political terms that Draco only later learned that the 'lover' they talked of was a man.

Their extremely liberal conversations led him to understand what lovers and the finer details of it meant, and his eight-years-old face exclaimed into redness behind his hands as Catherine watched on with amusement.

"That reaction of yours is three years too early, but I'm glad to see it anyways."

She lifted herself off the armchair, patting the clothes laid out for his wearing, and left like a ghost. The curtains had long been drawn.

...

As they picked apart his memory one by one, he found that he couldn't hold his breakfast, and even after they enlisted the help of Pot with the towels clinging to his talons, they went through another round of emptying the tea in his stomach before Draco could settle.

Uncle Jason, in his brief return to the mansion, had paused in his leave. He was now stirring a strange blend of his black tea, milk, and honey within a pot as Miss Catherine patted his back.

"Vivian must have wanted you to accept death before starting," his uncle said as he settled the warm tea in his hands, "death is a foreign concept to the living, even to those who walk between the boundaries of life and death."

Uncle Jason was a man of few words, but when he spoke it was often biting to the individual who heard it. He directed a conversation that pointed out truths, the discomforting ones an individual would have rather left to rot than to be spoken out loud, the ones most people fail to face in life and take to their grave. He was young, however, so as usual Uncle Jason's words had left him struggling to grasp the implications. He was soon distracted by the sweet flavour with it's sour twinge.

Miss Catherine patted his back. When Uncle Jason left the room, she proceeded to explain, "if the sight of inhumanity disgusts you more than what you believe should be a disgust at the sight of blood, your emotions are not incorrect. You have a stronger hesitation than most others when to making a decision, and similarly your justice wavers between right and wrong. It is your worst and best aspect, I believe."


	4. Clair de Lune

The room was freshly stale, entering the beginning stages of stuffiness where a wave of hands could possible clear room for breath, and steer the scent of pungent dampness across the room. Vivian stepped within as though her presence would clear away such a cadence. Across her the white-nested beard nestled against an old man's chin.

"It's been long, Monsieur Chartres. Very long."

"C'est longtemps pour toi. Je sais pas ce que tu veux."

"Would a greeting in concern over your health suffice an answer?"

Chartres scoffed.

"The last time you sought me I had ended up in a cursed room for twenty-one days," he said with a thick accent, "get to the point."

The last they had met, it was the day Jason had visited the registrar with Vivian at he International Department of French Ministry in naming his the following Head of the House of Fawley. In the process of doing so with Chartres on their tail, they had agreed to resolve the dungeons' cursed rooms based on their reputations, and had recommended Chartres who had just arrived in protest of naming Vivian the Head.

"Only you would criticise the Head of Fawley with such venom, grand-père. But I do request you to exchange the headmaster of Durmstrang with yourself."

Chartres de Barr took a moment to understand before his face warped into a sneer and glare, the definition of a man who had found his displeasure. He himself had been one of the minor actors on Grindelwald's stage. Nothing but a passing supporter, who had escaped from Voldemort's reach in his quest to solidify his presence within the previous ideologists, until he was being asked to establish his reputation once more. A disgusted growl left his throat.

"You know as well as I do that the reputation of Durmstrang precedes the actual institution itself. The institute is well-known for the education of Dark Arts as a subject, not the usage. The walls of Durmstrang would agree with me." Vivian explained.

"It is with the reputation that people are judged and not their true value. I have defaced my family's name once, I will not do it again."

Vivian couldn't quite refute that.

"Grand-père, Narcissa Black has managed to convince all of the mothers that Igor Karkaroff is more suited with his head on the ground than attached to his neck. You must understand that their eyes would turn to you regardless of your refusal. Then why shouldn't you take this as an opportunity to begin before anyone else in the condemnation of such a poorer man?"

Chartres frowned once at the mention of a Black, and frowned twice at the mention of women.

"A Black would concern herself over the matters of a headmaster so blatantly? If it's Narcissa, I've last heard she had wedded the Mal-fois."

"Malfoy. Their heir, Draco Malfoy, is under my care. Has been, in fact, for the past eight years in majority I believe."

Vivian felt something approach. She flung her own soul against it and frowned at the fact that, had it been anyone else but her, they wouldn't have felt the approach of such magic itself. Monsieur Chartres' face had turned red, his beard quivering against his chest.

"You've stolen a child." He hissed.

"Stealing is not the proper term. I may have had to drag the Blacks into a deeper involvement within our House, which I assume is the reason why you wish to kill me, but I've had the mother's consent. You cannot possibly blame me for choosing a Black, when our previous Head had been a Black himself. It is rare to have a hereditary Head in our House, I'd have you know."

"How the House has not fallen apart is a wonder to me." Chartres' sneer hadn't disappeared.

"Back to the point," Vivian said as she felt his resistance die, "and before you shatter any more of your tea cups. I'd like to give you the honour of flaying Karkaroff's skin yourself. Narcissa had been disappointed that her hand was to be stayed, but she is eager to watch and serve the advantages of having done so with the pure-blood councils afterwards."

Chartres was still creating a hostile atmosphere, so she invited herself to step over the remnants of china and sit before him on the armchair. She tapped the armrest in a desperate need for air, and the house windows flung itself open in joy that someone had finally allowed itself to breathe. Ignoring the glare Chartres was shooting in her direction, she willed for the books littered across the ground to be similarly organised.

"Don't be too disappointed, Chartres. You know as well as I that you are not suited for the position of Head. Catherine would not have allowed it."

"My ancestor is the founder."

"Understand this: I may address you my grand-père with what respect remains towards Jason's father but your ancestor is only one of the five. Their union is not something that cannot be defiled by meagre power-hungry descendants who shows incompetence in all but magic. Take the position, and be satisfied. I know it is what you wanted, despite your disapproval of its method."

Chartres crossed his arms in his chair.

"If I disagree?"

"Then," Vivian said, "I would have to force you to agree. I will take your age into consideration and not force my opinion onto you too violently, but violence always seemed to be what convinced you best. So I will, and you will succumb, like all the other times we have interacted."

"You expect me to be a scarecrow to your heir." Chartres drew his teeth forward.

Vivian stood, and Chartres stood almost immediately because her hand was moving.

"You have been under the care of Jason's father, and you will be the stepping stone of my heir. Don't you dare, Chartres, forget your position."

She felt the magic resist against her intention even as she wrangled it around her grasp. Chartres was drawing his wand, his legs falling into a position, and she would have mocked him had it not appeared as arrogance. Vivian's imagination rampaged, and she wondered if she should bear more rudeness before deciding he was better without his consciousness. Lightening sparked between her fingers in brief flashes. Chartres' mouth opened to form a spell.

_Fall,_ she whispered, and the thin wisp shot out and clasped itself around Chartres' neck. His voice, which was producing the first syllable of an unforgivable, gurgled, and he fell back into his chair. Her vengeance was short, near meaningless, as she watched his head loll to the side.

"Tea," she said, and an elf appeared, "tell Jason he will be the one to persuade him, because we could not come to a compromise. As always."

"Yes, Miss Vivian."

"And tell him, no matter how warm Chartres may act before him, if such a conversation happens once more I will personally see him removed."

"Yes, Miss Vivian."

...

"Pardon, you wish to what?"

"I want to attend Durmstrang when I turn eleven."

Vivian's thoughts rampaged before it settled, and the duration of silence which ensued was as unsettling. It was a soulful fight between what she believed must happen and what could possibly change. She had done so before, although the altered fates were fortunately minimal in number. Vivian stared at him, a small boy who barely reached the middle of her thighs, and patted his head absently.

"Why, yes. I will respect your decision if you wish it so. But let me ask you aside, didn't you want to see the Boy-Who-Lived with your very eyes? I must have told you he would attend Hogwarts at the same time you'd begin your education."

"But you've also told me not to believe in those stories," Draco insisted, "you told me there's only but a grain of truth to stories and legends, and that there will always be a majority of what is fabricated. I did my research, and Harry Potter will only be given a position of vulnerable fame and nothing more. Who would believe a fairy tale, and who wouldn't? There is no point in me attending Hogwarts as there is no point in Harry Potter becoming a saviour that anyone else, with ample training, could take the mantle of."

Vivian mulled silently allowing Draco to twist the tip of his fingers behind his back. It was an improvement from his nervous habit of twisting his wrists his uncle had severely disapproved of.

"I can tell you've planned your speech. Well, I suppose a congratulations is in order, Draco, since I've been vying to reinstate another, better man as Durmstrang's headmaster. He is better than Karkaroff, at least, and worse than Dumbledore, but is a man with better morals than myself. You'd be pleased to meet him, I'd like to believe."

"But Uncle Jason said you'd be Headmaster." Draco returned as his consciousness wavered.

His uncle's words had been the decisive reason behind his current plea, although he had grown a major love towards Durmstrang as a home.

"What?" Vivian repeated.

Draco held his silence. He watched as Aunt Vivian turned, and gazed somewhere south of where he stood as if to rid of the distance between herself and Jason, and with an alarming screech she disappeared. He glanced at the first few students who stepped through the classroom's door frame with contentment on their faces, as Aunt Vivian's classes despite her sarcastic voice held their interest with convoluted stories of history. He wondered if her sudden absence meant his own responsibility, and with the first eye contact with a student he knew better as those whom he casually greeted was reassured with a smile.

It was in times like these he appreciated his well-known presence within the school as he eased himself onto Aunt Vivian's rolling chair and covered himself with her knitted blue cardigan.

"Draco, where's professor Fall?"

"She's having some issues with her brother," Draco exclaims in delight, "here's the main gossip, though, I think she's going to be headmistress."

The students gasped, and there was a ripple of murmur before a voice sliced through the heated shouts.

"I think I can validate this. My mother knows your mother very well, Draco, and she has been holding rotation meetings with other houses. There's been a meeting at my house, and since this news is current we can only assume this was the topic of discussion amongst them. Have your mothers been busy lately?"

Draco nodded, and there was another round of nods across the classroom.

"I'd rather have my aunt be Headmistress, if you'd all not take offence I'd love to explain." Draco eyed the class.

There none who sent a heated glare of distrust.

"You see, my Aunt knows the political aspects of this side of the Wizarding World better than anyone else could possibly grasp. You could have probably guessed by her explanations, but she also has well intended connections. If her influence is enough to sway the Headmaster's position, what couldn't be used as a weapon for Durmstrang's own safety? I've only heard the worst of Karkaroff's reputation throughout my visits outside, especially when the grandmas decide to involve me in their knitting circle." Draco frowned, distracted, and the class sent warm compassionate glances.

"You're cute, Draco," Amiea doted, "you wouldn't realise it now, but it's a privilege to be invited into those grandma's knitting circles you so detest."

Draco knew, but he kept his disgust as readable on his features.

"Anyways. I know my Aunt is strong, too. I've seen her-"

"We know she's strong Draco."

"You get trained individually by her, do you not?"

"It's quite obvious when you transfigure our textbooks."

"Don't forget the time you conjured that wave of water down the hall."

The small body of his betrayed him by turning pink, flushed from head to toe. Everyone looked as if he was a part of a circus, which he believed he was and which he had brought on himself. He pouted, his stare petulant, and some choked down their laughter.

Pot ruffled his feathers, which was the only sign Draco had before a screech echoed around the room. Vivian was known for many things including her lack of fashion and messy hair she purposely kept clean but tangled, but she was most well-known for how her apparition reflected her mood. Draco winced lightly, but the students took to covering their ears or reflexively jumping in their seats.

Vivian took one long look at the class' hopeful stares before fixing a glare on Draco's head. Because Draco was not naive, and could manipulate a crowd with his words as she had taught, or fan the rumours, or make a possibility a certainty.

"What, have you done." She demanded.

"Professor," Nartus interrupted, "if you are going to be Headmistress, could you please approve of expanding our Quidditch field? And it would be brilliant if you could also expand our stables. I'd say Спасибо in advance, but you're not Headmistress yet, so we'd be very, very grateful in the future."

Vivian glared. The class shrunk on itself, until Pot trilled silently. They watched with bated breadth as Pot shrieked once more as Vivian's glare turned conflicted between reproachful and devastated.

"You are my pet, and you know nothing of this situation." Vivian spoke with indignation.

There was another rumour around the school which spoke of how the eagle which sat so calmly on its perch near Professor Vivian at all times was actually a spirit which the professor had caught and confined to an eagle's body. It wasn't the most pleasing theory which ruminated, but its story was quite popular amongst the younger students. Who began to exchange glances that very moment, and was quelled by a knowing glance of the infuriated Professor.

The eagle squawked.

Suddenly, there was a series of normal, average pops which resounded in the classroom. Vivian glared heatedly towards the people who stepped forward as if there hadn't been a problem in interrupting an already interrupted class.

"I will not say 'what' again," Vivian snarled quietly, "so state your business, Fillia."

"Fillia Flammel DeVann, on behalf of the Representatives of the European Union of Institutions, Victoria Ivan Velderwick, and Crisvoden Conner Chaeor, greet you Miss Vivian Fall, and would like to cordially extend a seat to our meeting as the previous representative of Durmstrang and honorary member of Uagadou, to be reinstated as the Headmistress of Durmstrang. Please, rest assured, as your status as a representative and honorary member will not and cannot be revoked. This is an urgency in need of your most immediate attention, as Igor Karkaroff has been reported missing as of the ninth hour, and the seat must not remain vacant. Would you come with us?"

"It does not sound cordial." Vivian sighed out in resignation.

"I tried, Vivian." Fillia responded with mockery laced in her voice.

Vivian looked around the classroom, at the glittering stares of her students she had come to care for, at the curious stare of her Draco, and the beady eye of her eagle. She made time hold its breath within the classroom, and took the moment to bemoan this life with closed eyes.

"Let us do it here, since you've already come prepared. I'd rather like my class to watch, as an experience and motivation."

Conner smiled mildly.

"In fact, it's already been done on our end, Vivian. All you need to do is say the words."

She would have raged had it not been for the fact that, at the very moment of her acceptance her emotions had left for the void and her head was calculating her next moves.

"Hand me a wand."

Being handed Fillia's wand of unicorn hair and firm willow, she jabbed it into the air with her palm faced downwards. There were so many things she could do for Draco and much less internationally considering her elevated position. But the ministry's council was something she could sway, an International board quite logical in their decisions, quite progressive, Vivian found herself turning her thoughts inwards towards Durmstrang itself.

"I, Livinnis Vivian Fall, swear upon my soul, to serve the name of Durmstrang, in all devices possible, in exchange of my magic. May retribution watch me so as to leave my services pure."

There was so much to discuss with Jason.

...

The promotion of his aunt led into a given mission of finding a suitable partner near Scotland. With her hands tied with the new title and the burden of three amassed, Vivian had decided to delegate most of her international affairs for Draco's own management, including the connection of new relations of his own.

He met her when her house was half buried in snow and the beach had glazed over just a day ago. Luna Lovegood was a year younger than him yet was as verbally talented in her words as he was trained to be, which brought forth an uncomfortable amount of familiarity. She was young, but talented, and he knew she recognised him as her kind beyond her incomprehensible comments. Escorting her out of the house had been an entirely new experience.

"Excuse me, I have no idea what a Nargle could possibly be." He replied.

The girl tipped her head to the side, then to the other, and pointed towards the air above his shoulders.

"Nargles. It's what causes you so much apprehension, I think."

Considering that this was his first interaction with someone around the same age as him, no matter the many older friends he had made in Durmstrang, Draco could admit he was nervous. Not quite, however, apprehensive.

But he recognised the defensive mechanism of intellectual psychology. Her eyes were wide, her smile a tad larger than it had been when she had tilted her head, and perhaps she had tilted her head in some form of reassurance regarding her own vulnerability because that all pointed to a preparation of rejection.

He was similarly taught how to approach such subjects with ample demonstrative scenarios Aunt Vivian had given him to burn himself through the night.

"I don't think," he started carefully, "I can admit that I am apprehensive of you. Can we compromise on this as being nervous, instead?"

Luna Lovegood seemed pleased.

"You are very different from your English version, Draco." She continued.

Draco took a while to digest that, and was both horrified and awed at once. He could take this at face value, disregarding her perception towards his other identity. He didn't, as awed as he was.

"Are you perhaps insinuating that I may be a different Draco Malfoy if I had been raised with my mother?" He asked.

He read the court proceedings pertaining his guardianship when he was taught to read legal documents. He was certain Aunt Vivian had started with a topic that concerned himself to rouse his interest in official documents and formalities, and it had worked, because he had already memorised the legalities of custody proceedings of children under the age of three.

More importantly, he now found himself terrified when the girl did not confirm his suspicions. He had learned silence was an act of admittance, after all.

They were sitting in the ballroom of Aunt Vivian's Manor, which she had named Kettle upon arrival. It was dusty, and she had left them to their devices after clearing the ballroom first, before leaving in search of help. It was white, empty, and big. If it weren't for his companion Draco would have felt insecure at the lack of cover from an attack, or perhaps this meeting had been staged to increase his dependence, and hers, without a guardian over their shoulders. Perhaps.

"Lovegood?"

She turned to him, her startling light-blue eyes a shade whiter under the light falling between the french windows.

"Yes. I think, you're very nice, Draco-of-now. You're certainly better at expressing your opinions than the Draco-of-then would have said. Less repetitions, more thoughts." She lifted a necklace off her neck.

"Here, have a butter-beer." Her voice was distant, and airy.

It was the cork of a butter-beer bottle, not the beer itself. But as he observed the swinging thing, he came to the realisation that he had never tasted one before, nonetheless heard of one, so he proceeded to ask of its flavours only to be replied with: "It's soft, and softer, but not as soft."

"You mean, it has a foam, and is smooth to drink, but is not a beer?" Draco voiced his interpretation (he noted that she had steered the conversation away, and was delighted to know he had met someone much manipulative than himself).

The girl looked startled. She hummed, and grabbed his hands in hers. And at the same time he instinctively drew back, although he could not quite release himself as the girl was formidably strong. His hand grasped feebly around the cork, and once released he reluctantly placed it around his neck he was pleased by her blinding smile. Because he knew the smile was unrestrained.

He thought he understood. She twisted her words around the bend and even further, but there was ample logic if one could become quite as poetic as she was. Beyond all his conclusions Draco was fascinated by her eyes, a hue of blue so light it would have been grey, and wondered, and decided.

"I would be glad to have you as a friend," he said, "if you are interested."

"I'll be your first honorary member, Draco."

At the sudden self-invitation Draco found a helpless smile overtaking him.

"I won't tell you much, beg your pardon. Maybe when we are older?"

"It's fine. I don't mind."

"Look," he started, "I rather think of myself adopted by my aunt, although my mother and father remains well. I'd not impose, but I would like to have you as a sister, in the same manner my Aunt and Uncle remains close despite their different blood."

"Do I need a new name?" She asked.

He smiled at her. It was with excitement, disregarding the lecture he would receive regarding his impulsive actions.

"How about Clair?" Draco asked innocently, "Clair Fawley, like _Clair de Lune _of your eyes."


	5. Durmstrang

_1991 August 1st_

The knife he was given when he turned eleven before he officially began his studies in Durmstrang was a classic Bowie knife of the United States' KA-BAR standard made by D.E. Henry with the blade of a Scimitar, so faintly curved it couldn't be told if not for the curved tip. A similar one was given to Luna who stood silently beside him with a curious gaze.

"Not something as precious to be called hereditary, but something valuable nonetheless because there isn't another pair of these two in the world. Magic is powerful but not indefinite. There are limits of an individual that cannot be crossed, which is why most devolve to rehearsed body fights. What makes everything better, is a weapon." Jason tapped the edge of Draco's blade.

They were in the Grey Billard Room, turned 'educational room', or as what Aunt Vivian called 'The Room of Sorrows'. When asked, all she indicated was that it was the most fitting name for what would come to be in the future, a nostalgic memory. Draco had not understood, but came to call it so nonetheless.

"I'll be teaching you the physical aspect. Vivian will be teaching magic duelling, once you've finished learning your stances with me. Both of you. Luna, you’ll have to learn the basic stances and modify them as you wish after adjustment. A woman's body is different from a man's in structure."

"How similar is it to the stuff I've been learning?" Draco looked at Aunt Vivian, who didn’t answer and remained buried in a paper.

"The closest example I can give would be the hand-to-hand combat of the French military's named individuals. Sometimes they surprise me with a new technique, once every blue moon, but none can live up to their name in full."

"Named individuals?"

Jason opened his mouth, paused, and conceded the floor to Vivian with a glance.

"There is a naming system, like how the House of Fawley gives their people a name, within the French military of _les autres*_. Anyone who is found to be talented enough in a variety of fields, or deadly within a specialised one, is named differently with a nickname which indicates their strength. For instance, I was given the name of Paladin for the handling of metal knives and swords which are rarely seen in today’s battlefield. I suppose it doesn't surprise you?"

"You've worked with the French military before? Was it in your younger years? Or was this a similar circumstantial position that was given to you for announcing your identity?"

"Yes, for the latter. It was a circumstantial offer, but I did earn the name myself. Names are not often created, and I had to dislocate, in milder terms, some legal papers. They should’ve found it fortunate tradition dictated them to record the given name and not whom I've enlisted as, considering I would have destroyed what evidence they retained."

"We're going off track," Jason interrupted, "this may be the last month of your holidays, Vivian, but Draco needs a year at most considering that the first years are rarely given challenging materials."

Draco held the knife tightly in his left hand, before switching it to his right. Luna was dangling it before her eyes by the blade as if she was contemplating its weight.

"There isn't much time. We should have started with this, Vivian, and began their magic studies later."

Vivian swivelled on her stool to face them even as her hand reached back for the next paper atop the nearest pile, a common sight within the rooms of their manor in every nook and cranny.

"Magic is in their veins, and runs as their blood. It is something that is gifted by birth which I will not go against." Vivian mumbled against her fountain pen.

Draco flicked the blade, and was delighted to hear nothing.

"This is how you hold it, Draco," Jason said as he pried the knife out of his hands and held it up by its ends, "wrap your hands around, make a firm grip. Firm enough so as the handle settles in your palm, but not to strong for the blade to tremble. Luna, here."

"Does this mean you will be arranging these kind of classes at Durmstrang, Aunt Vi? Not that I'm against the notion, but I highly doubt that the others would be keen on participating what could be called a sport _les autres_ enjoys." Draco asked as he swung the blade as Jason directed.

"I've worked too hard with Narcissa to engrave the other's fashion into our society," Vivian scoffed lightly, "I will not have a mere sport of killing interrupt my school's cultural unity."

The very ponytail gathered by the top of her head included five strands of braids with clasps she had brought into fashion not a week before, the clasps tinkling against her back with each step she took. From what he gathered from the girls who often gave him chocolates, they could not find the clasps anywhere but in a certain high-end muggle store which required, even in the transition between their fares, a fair amount of their allowance.

"Besides, your mother is intent on crafting your debut into society a modest affair between France and Britain. A place comfortable enough for you to weave through, although I'm afraid they'd be speaking their own languages initially for the sake of their pride. Your first task will be to create a balance between your guests so as to have everyone concede on English without anyone's pride taking offence."

"She told me she would be hosting the party at this very house." Draco pondered.

"She is."

"Then why must we speak French in France when everyone knows English? The French ministry is as fluent in the language."

Vivian glanced at him exasperatedly.

"Forgive the English language darling, it didn't mean to go global."

Jason tapped his raised elbow harshly down before moving onto Luna. Draco, frowning at the rustling of his clothes, recalled his aunt mentioning a speed which caused the clothes to paste against the skin, a fine control of strength which could burrow a sword at the right angle so as to not leave any blood behind. Draco swung the sword once more, and wondered.

"It doesn't feel right Uncle Jason." Luna says airily.

"Of course it doesn't," Jason sighed, "you are young, and your muscles are underdeveloped. The amount of strength required to cut through a bone, for instance, cannot be measure by your swing but after an actual experience. To each their own, in short."

An alarm went off by the nearest window-sill, jolting Aunt Vivian from her paper and drawing forth an immediate snap to cease the ringing. With a few mutters, Aunt Vivian gathered what remained of her papers towards her bag before grabbing Draco's hand.

"Draco, darling. I will be giving my own greeting before the entire school, but do remember that if you come across any problem, anything at all of any complaints, you're always invited for tea. And if there is an issue you cannot disclose to us adults, remember that there are friends around you, and Luna. Would you?"

"Of course," Draco frowned, "is there a problem, Aunt Vivian?"

Aunt Vivian exchanged glances with Uncle Jason, who simply raised his brow.

"No." She said.

_Narcissa had long handed her wand to Ted Tonks, which he had received in surprise but had not denied. That, was what granted the current privacy between Andromeda and herself in a small kitchen with a lack of tea._

_"Do you remember, Andromeda, the time cousin Regulus used to tell us one persistent bedtime story that we couldn't quite forget?"_

_They were smart people. They were once sisters. Andromeda leaned forward involuntarily and stared at Narcissa with an odd frown._

_"The House of Fawley?"_

_"Draco has became a subject of their interests," Narcissa continued, "I could murder Grindelwald and our Lord in cold blood but it wouldn't save my Draco from them. Do you understand, Andromeda? The decision I was laid between was of Draco and our Lord."_

_Andromeda had long paled. What Andromeda could understand, was that Narcissa had chosen her son, and that the war had not ended. In fact, if she read her sister correctly after a decade, she was meant to have said it was simply there._

_"Where does their allegiance lie?" Andromeda asked._

_Narcissa opened her mouth to speak, found herself unable to voice an opinion, and took a moment to rearrange her words in fatigue._

_"They do not care for the war, Andromeda. They care for Draco, hence Draco would be the one to decide."_

_"He is a child," Andromeda talks in horror, "he is your son. What would Draco be in their hands?"_

_"Fate." Vivian said by the door._

...

There were parents and children gathered across the front yard, a looming fort beyond their sight. The fort, in a word, was 'large', but there were other aspects which streaked starkly against the surrounding forestry such as the monstrosity of a gate if it could be called as such, the windows which were, not barred, but simple in design. Overall, it was a fortress made for war and of war, if the new renovations weren’t taken into consideration.

The medieval walls loomed over them, a mist settled around the ground and flaming oil lamps flickering around the yard they stood in. They were standing, it seemed, in the midst of pouring thick air which tumbled around the ground.

They did not know where they were and several had turned towards the fog in increasing adoration, as the sight which had carried them here between the hidden mountain paths was as impressive as the fortress before them. There were some towers, raised to the point where its yellow light flickered like fireflies in the mist, and the roofs of buildings which peaked over the fortress’ walls but smoked its chimneys nonetheless. A steady stream of water could be heard, somewhere, alongside the rustle of a forest. Durmstrang was an intimidating place in impression, and a mystical fortress in reality.

When the gates did swing open from the iron bars which lined its first entrance to the last oak doors which swung backwards, all that remained was a woman dressed in pristine black, the only colour on her a vivid red cloak which fell neatly to its side. She stepped forwards thrice and did not make to move any further.

"Please, enter." She said.

The children and parents crowded closer towards the gates. Draco, alone, but familiar, stood at the very front, and led the group past the Red Bridge, through the Outer Fields, under the Snake's Arch, until the Reception Quarters. The hall was illuminated with flames which lit upon the first indication of a presence.

"Familiae, amici, et hospites honoratissimi, salvete omnes. Mihi voluptas magna huius ceremoniam salutationis._ I am Vivian Fall, the new headmistress of Durmstrang. Due to several known circumstances I have already clarified in the letters addressed to you parents, despite my title as a member of the representative to the European Union of Institutions for wizards and witches, I have agreed to bear this responsibility._"

She smiled, a red smile on white skin, and it was made fiercer by the hair pulled tightly together.

_"For the interests of your daughters and sons, I’d like to emphasise on a few more matters before you leave. Children will head this way. Parents, with me."_

At the behest of their parents the children took a tentative step forward. They were fewer in number as many had turned to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons after the disappearance of Voldemort, as much as Durmstrang was reputed to be of the dark and the Boy-Who-Lived of the light. The only reason why they hadn't ceased entirely was in most, the participation Vivian had made in stabilising Durmstrang itself, mostly through Narcissa in word of mouth.

Draco had, as promised, lived in relative peace. If it weren't for the fact that Narcissa had played such a large part in the meetings herself, it was too rapid and silent a change that she would not have noticed it. It was the reason behind Catherine's sudden appearance, when Vivian could have covered the entirety of Draco's memory lessons herself, and Jason's frequent absence around the manor.

It was also the reason why the Representatives of the European Union of Institutions had moved so desperately to have Vivian seated in her chair, because from their observations, however limited, she was beloved by Durmstrang's inhabitants.

When they entered the hall devoid of any tables but the students which lined its walls, Draco waved imperceptibly towards the few who enthusiastically greeted him. It was his first official day as a student of Durmstrang, and the older students, similarly those who were on the verge of leaving, was only fond to see him as one of their own in a different manner.

"Your luggage," a short and sturdy one started from the front of the hall over many heads, "you will have to place in your desired room yourself. There will be two to a room and four to a hall, however you see it fit. The students who are currently around you will give you their own descriptions of each wing. Family members are not allowed to stay within the same room, although it is recommended to remain in the same wing. When speaking, give only but your name and do not address your heritage. Begin."

"Draco."

Draco startled. The voice had rang beside him almost as immediately as the boy's speech had ended.

"Yes?" Draco turned, and immediately continued, "Blaise!"

The dark-skinned boy inclined his head in greeting, his suit a cut above the others in quality. For a brief moment, Draco questioned his presence at Durmstrang, before realising that his meeting must have impacted Blaise's decision more than he had assumed in their prior meeting at his mother's behest, when he visited England.

"What a surprise." Draco chose to say.

"Supposedly." Blaise returns.

They stared at each other, Blaise in his stoic demeanour and Draco in his politeness. Conversely, they hadn't exchanged much in their first meeting because beyond recognising the other capable of reading between the lines, both knew once they started talking, there couldn't be much to hide. It was in times like these that Draco understood that there were those as mature as he was in social approaches.

Silence was not as awkward in their mutual understanding; Draco took solace as Aunt Vivian had disappeared. Uniforms were not mandatory, nor were suits, but Draco wore a white shirt with black and a leather messenger bag. He was glad it seemed less than the design Blaise had worn, which included heels and a suitcase that seemed unbefitting his age.

"My, have you already partnered with someone?"

"Oh, Joheim."

Ashen-haired, the blue eyed boy wildly sought contact between the two before he fixed his attention on Blaise.

"Joheim Piev Ivanov, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Blaise Zabini. Pleasure."

"Draco," Joheim turned, "I was surprised to learn your Aunt was in the International Confederation of Wizards."

"No, she is a part of the Representatives of the European Union of Institutions, not the International Confederation." Draco frowned at the confusion on the boys' faces, "they're not as related, because the meeting Aunt Vivian attends is solely for the educational purposes of the European Schools. It just happened that she received a honorary recommendation from Uagadou and turned it international."

"The European Union of Institutions is rarely heard of, most have taken to assuming it as a branch of the International Confederation's Educational Office." Joheim interrupted in surprise.

"The Educational Office's purpose is observation, tactful intervention for international gatherings, maintaining the Statue of Secrecy, and delegating outsiders to the right places. The ROEUI _[Row-ee]_ is where the coursework, staff, and headmasters are filtered. Background checks, student control, statistics, and collaborations within the European continent. Aunt Vivian said the former is politics and the latter is of personal interest."

"Neither sounds better." Joheim noted.

Blaise agreed. Noticing the thin number of students with most having left for their exploration, he turned his worried gaze on Joheim.

"May I ask, since each hall has two rooms, which hall would be your recommendation?"

"The purpose of my approach was to invite you to my hall. Number 21-22, the most eastern room of the Blue Lodgings. Immediate to the Elves' house and the Fourth Court, across the Forest. Room 22 turned vacant as the occupants graduated, Nartus and I are leaving by the second season. Which also means you wouldn't have to share, unless by an offer."

"Thank you. But the location, too, please? Draco may have stayed here for long but this is an entirely new environment from England. To find Durmstrang was a fortress was an entirely different matter from knowing Hogwarts was a castle." Blaise explained.

Joheim pointed at a wide area between two buildings.

"The Fourth Court is the Ball court. Croquet, Oină, and basic baseball games are available. We've been pushing for its expansion for half of the court to be turned into a minuscule golf course. The Blue Lodgings for the boys lies to the West of it.”

Blaise politely smiled, which was an expression of how little he understood of the extended explanation.

"You’ll have this place memorised sometime before this following year. Durmstrang might be overwhelming, but it’s easier on the eyes. I'll explain as we walk. And, Draco, I’ve put forth a recommendation for you to be the commencement's representative speaker at the Pavilion's introductory meeting. You’re welcome to bring your friend, of course, but the recommendation passed as soon as I offered."

That, had been the point of his invite, Blaise realised. All Draco revealed in his indignance was a moment's long stare, because Joheim had obviously offered his hall for repentance's sake. Later, Blaise Zabini would realise Draco's first reaction to any surprise would be to stare.

"When can that title be redistributed?" Draco asked.

"You'll be requested," Joheim said as they stepped out of the Reception Quarters, "to oversee minor things, such as initial discomforts about their immediate partner or fist fights which should emerge in a month's time. The title will not be 'redistributed', as you have so put it, and the Pavilion will list you as one of the possible alumni to contact after your graduation for the Pavilion's lessons. But, you're a representative for the Pavilion, not the education sector, hence you won't be living in the Yellow Lodgings."

"By Merlin's beard, couldn't you have treated me like all others? There’ll be so much to do."

Joheim laughed.

"Draco. You've been roaming the passages and classrooms since you could walk, having all of us at your hand and foot. Offering your services in return shouldn’t be a waste of time.”

"So your offer is a consolation, then?"

"The very word."

They passed the Crow's Head and First Court which Blaise observed with interest. Classes seemed to be in session, despite the sudden chatter outside, and aside form a few stray gazes from the older students none paid them any attention. The Crow's Head, Joheim said as he pointed towards the building, was where Magic Studies and Researches were held. Unless the applying student was approved by three professors and an approval of the Headmaster, none could enter the building. Even as they passed, strange lights and sounds came from within. The First Court was not a court but a circular field paired with a circular fountain, and to its left, was the Blue Lodgings.

"The Blue Lodgings. Now, there are underground passages often used when the winter winds fall hard, the entire passages charmed to warmth. You will be best off asking Draco," Joheim said to Blaise, "as he's been in them for the longest. It was a sight when I first came to Durmstrang, a wide-eyed first year, to find an eight year old running down the passages. Even more so when everyone started asking the very same boy for directions, of all things, well into their third month."

"Is it the Headmistress who made the exception?" Blaise turned to Draco.

Draco flushed, and turned his head to look at the forest. Joheim laughed.

"Now, I was told the headmistress had only been our professor of History then, so no-one really approved having a five years old sitting around classes. When I arrived, everyone had long turned used to his presence, but apparently none of the professors had the heart to have Draco removed from the premises back then. Our previous Headmaster, Karkaroff, often fought with the headmistress about the issue but never approached Draco." Joheim spoke.

"From what I've been told, you're implying Draco had been in Durmstrang since he was five. Wasn't that too young an age for you, Draco?"

"You're mistaken. Sitting in classes didn't mean I understood them. My earliest memory is enjoying watching the colours from spells students were testing. Aunt Vivian and the other professors mostly asked to deliver messages between themselves. The most participation was between Aunt Vivian's classes and the Arts for some project or the other."

"You must have been very popular." Blaise concluded as they climbed a set of stairs.

"Not at all," Draco shook his head, "in the way you imagine. Simply listening, and completing assignments to projects, are an entirely different matter. The new professor this year must have a different method, I'd presume."

By the time they reached the door, they had grown closer. Joheim pressed the second key into Draco's hand.

"I'm off. The second years were only allowed leave for their morning classes, and were recommended to return as soon as possible to our 'usual routine' once the introductions had been made. Head to the Oval Dining Hall once you've settled in."

"What a talkative person." Blaise whispered as he watched Joheim leave.

"About the necessary matters. You'll be surprised to see him during social events. Rarely a word, and when he does speak, it's only for the benefit of himself or the majority as a whole. That was why he was chosen for his year's representative for the Pavilion within the first week."

"The Pavilion. It sounds like an entirely different function from the school's representatives?"

"The Pavilion's representatives are responsible for social matters. The school's representatives oversee the educational and larger problems, like class assignments, in collaboration with the professors. The Pavilion is made up from top to bottom of students, and there are often invited alumni to hold sessions on the greetings and social niceties of certain parts of the Wizarding World. Last, the German Minister came to talk about what manners are required for an official hearing in the German court."

"You've been?"

"No. I've heard. The older students didn't allow me within, citing that it would be too mature for a young mind. But it's only manners and rules, and the Pavilion isn't any official function aside from being a place where you can make connections."

Draco and Blaise stared at each other, and dissolved into short laughter.

"A young mind?" Blaise repeated incredulously, "perhaps on the educational sector, but not on social pleasantries."

"Better underestimated than known, Blaise. Can I know the real reason you're here?"

"Your mother and mine." He replied, and began throwing his hands around as he explained his mother’s exasperating conviction.

...

They assembled in the Oval Dining Hall, a fair walk from the lodgings that Draco reassured Blaise would get used to. The Oval Dining Hall was as the name indicated, with round tables and chairs. It seemed to have been made for the sole purpose of having them mingle, as they were crowded towards the middle rather than lining the walls. They were bound to, even as they scraped their chairs from under the tablecloths, bump into one another or reach for the second table's wares.

They sat, and a few startled at the magic which tingled their senses the moment their skin touched the chair. Draco was one of the few, Blaise reacting a moment slower.

The Headmistress was absent from the front tables lined with silver embroideries, the sole difference from their white ones. There wasn't much to differ in extravagance. A thin, pale man rose from professor's table, and the hall obligingly fell hushed from front to back with a single glare from the man's brown eyes.

"Welcome. I hope you were settled to your satisfaction. I am Matthew."

His voice was grating on their nerves, a deep voice with the lisp of an old woman's boredom.

"You classes were designed the moment you took your seats. I will be explaining what would be expected of you during your stay at Durmstrang. You will receive your map and your schedules after this explanation. We will not be responsible for anyone who didn't receive a schedule, may you figure it out with the resources available."

Matthew snapped his fingers, and the side doors were flung open once more. A few elves fluttered in, with trays of desserts and drinks. There were also a few students who were carrying in spare chairs for those who had not been able to sit.

"Durmstrang is heavily described within the first three rules, and the rest are clauses. I, nor you all, have the time or energy to talk and listen through such length, so bear the first three in mind, and learn the rest of your own accord. First and foremost, be the sole person responsible or be the sole person gone. Whether you are the one who starts a riot within the school, or the one who murdered, it is either you or not at all.

"Second, what happens in the school, remains in the school. If you'd prefer to keep your peers silent about the fact you've once exploded a building, then keep their wrongs silent as well.

“Third, Durmstrang first, Durmstrang last. This school has weathered through the beginning of magic as long as Hogwarts. Take pride, and behave accordingly. Your actions reflects Durmstrang's reputation, your words are born from Durmstrang's education. Whatever you do, Durmstrang is your second home, your second parent, and your trusted friend. And in return, Durmstrang will bear your pain, your reputation, and your struggles together. May you never forget that."

Matthew sat, reached for the nearest glass, and downed it with a sigh. A few professors who had attended their greetings patted him consolingly. The students, after a moment's hesitation, began to follow Matthew's example and began eating in a daze.

"It is understandable why Grindelwald affected Durmstrang's reputation as much." Blaise whispered.

"Wondrous, how people don't notice such things. Durmstrang could have claimed unaffiliated no matter how many people stated otherwise. Aunt Vivian told me it's recorded in Durmstrang's history that it once took pride in their student's influence, although many disapproved of the deaths of other wizards and witches, mostly because of how the entire Wizarding World knew it was Grindelwald in particular. Unlike the one in England, in fact."

A boy, seated opposite their round table, leaned in.

"I've no idea who, and I frankly don't care, but might we compare our schedules? I'd prefer to attend a class with someone I've already seen."

Draco then noticed the slip of paper in his hands.

"Sure. Draco Malfoy." He offered a handshake.

"Felis Eriksfrey." He returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *les autres- French word for 'the others', a terminology which addresses the no-mages, or muggles, in France.


	6. Viktor Krum

After Draco tested the wards of the Captain's Keep, where the headmistress' quarters were, and found that he was able to enter without resistance he barged in with excitement.

The first floor was, as it seemed, a reception hall in its entirety. There was a piano in the corner which Draco was certain Aunt Vivian never used by the settled dust, a violin atop it which had been fondly displayed, with couches and tea tables lining the centre rug. He ignored the room, as he had seen many reception rooms in his young lifetime, although this one had a flair for the dramatics in its colour scheme of black and white.

He wandered the second floor which had had not been allowed before, which had an impressive array of time-warping dimensions scattered around every spare space there was, including a direct one towards the Kettle, which Draco was delighted to peer through. If it weren't for the fact that he was familiar with such a dimensional tear through time and space, anyone else would have stumbled through in eagerness and landed torn. There were books scattered across the floor and lining the walls, and Draco soon turned towards the third tear.

He found Aunt Vivian on the fainting couch, his mother seated across her with patience and elegance. The room seemed to have been scorched in some places and wet in others, tear marks and shattered decorations on every corner, with a few more angry designs upon the engraved walls. Draco would have immediately left had it not been that both of their gazes, Aunt Vivian rolling around the fainting couch and his mother turning her body, met his immediately.

"Hello, mother." Draco chose wisely.

Aunt Vivian looked as if she wished to be exasperated.

"Good evening, Draco. How was your day?"

Draco took another look around the room registering a few spells, Aunt Vivian's torn jacket abandoned well across the window-sill, and a lock of her hair on the ground before realising they must have discussed a matter quite thoroughly indeed.

"There were several unexpected and unwelcome gains, but it went better than your hour past. Has the opinions regarding my admittance given you, us, trouble?"

"Hogwarts was tradition. There is a matter of loyalty, even between the Institutions. A family once involved never turns their back to their place of nurturing, be it any war or deaths which stands in their way. We might as well have proclaimed that the Malfoys and Blacks have turned their allegiances beyond the English Ministry. Helping the cause, and accepting your admittance, are two different things."

"Your mother," Aunt Vivian begins, "is of the firm opinion that helping the downfall of Karkaroff and the expansion of her garden is one thing, and that your frequent presence on these grounds is another. It is not your concern, although it should be, as I would rather have you focus on your studies."

"_I _decided to attend Durmstrang." Draco stated as he turned to his mum.

"Under Vivian's influence, you will not deny."

"Haven't Aunt Vivian told you? She was very reluctant to have me here."

"Reluctant?" Aunt Vivian repeated.

"You were more inclined to teach me about Hogwarts even during my stay in Durmstrang during my younger years." Draco recalled.

"Have you, Vivian?" Narcissa turned.

Aunt Vivian frowned and sank into her thoughts. Narcissa and Draco watched, because Vivian's reaction meant many things, even as the composure of Headmistress crumbled away.

"If Draco attending Hogwarts was the right thing, and Durmstrang but an alternative, reluctance would have been the last thing to consider." She murmured, "inactivity worse than activity, a life for a life. Would it make sense if you were to believe the same theory applies to your decision?"

"What?" Draco asked.

Vivian shook her head.

"Draco, your mother fully approves of your admittance, she was simply blowing off steam. I am receptive to such violence if you hadn't noticed. Like one of those imaginary targets you paint in your head and dream of strangling in your sleep, save I happen to be that very foe in reality which never happens to destruct, and is therefore murder-able without facing the consequences."

Draco winced at the unnecessary information.

"Besides, Blaise Zabini would not have been here had it not been for your mother's persuasive display."

Draco narrowed his eyes, stared at the two with more attention than he had first walked into the room, and came to a realisation.

"Are you both drunk?"

They reached for the salvaged tea cups with an elegant turn of their body.

"No, no, you can't act as if the past conversation hadn't been telling," Draco remarked in his eleven-years-old's confidence, "Aunt Vivian may add a few unnecessary words rarely, but mother would rather throw things. She never tore up walls."

Vivian sighed. Reaching into an empty space before her, she pulled out a bottle of _Patrimonio_. Draco blinked as she drank the wine from the bottle. His mother would have commented, had she been saner, of how crude her manners were but she was pulling out a fermented _Gaillac Rouge_ _1978 _alongside three glasses of wine, one filled to the brim with simple grape juice. Draco took it obligingly as he watched his mother delicately swirl the wine once.

"Your observation surprises me very often." Aunt Vivian said, "you would be reading into the days where I am deprived of a human's frivolities next."

"How rare of you to admit you've gained no pleasure by the use of foolish men," Narcissa commented, "or perhaps you would both prefer to abstain from sex itself."

"We rather prefer the privacy than the risks."

Draco's eyes sparked in curiosity.

"We?" He asked, leaning forward.

Aunt Vivian only raised her eyebrow.

"It's biology, darling. Now, students have been attempting to organise an introductory greeting, the older years, for Saturday by the means of Quidditch. Or flying. There were not many details involved in their propaganda. I recommend you watch, Draco, apparently it's going to be quite a sight."

It was not a subtle change of subjects, but both Draco and his mother deigned not to point out the leaps Vivian had made.

...

When Saturday came, Draco did watch the show.

There were flyers dressed in red and black, crossing the skies and tearing it in red sparks trailing after their brooms to form various shapes as related to Durmstrang it could get, a ship, the crest, a large fortress, Draco could recognise them in clarity with lines and curves of various thicknesses.

"You should join, if you're interested." Blaise said without tearing his eyes off their display.

"The Blue Wing does receive applications for Aerodynamics classes until the end of next week." A girl added as she twisted in her seat, "Vice Captain of the Quidditch team at Durmstrang, nice to meet you."

"Pleasure." Blaise returned easily.

"I'm not sure. My aunt, she simply recommended to watch, I'd have to ask." Draco said.

Blaise stared at him in surprise, even as a completed figure of a dragon came to life above their heads. But the girl's face softened in understanding even as she nodded and turned back to gasp at the last of the dragon's rounds.

"Whether you would join or not is completely up to you. Surely your Aunt would have no sway over that?" Blaise asked, and his question would have been insulting had it not been for his honest surprise.

"No. Neither would my mother, or all the acquainted adults." Draco confirmed.

"It's a problem of independence," the girl spoke once more, although her sight was fixated on the sky above her, "Durmstrang offers more independence of the students than any other educational institution. We have no restrictive wards on buildings aside from the lodgings, unlike Beauxbatons where everything is clearly divided, and security runs on approval and supervision. 

"An approval once earned is never taken back, like the Crow's Head. Whatever goes on in there, is supervised and never interfered. We don't have a restricted library, like Hogwarts, so all books of all manners and topics can be easily accessed. Also the reason why our healers are recognised around the Worlds, as they've dealt with far too many curses."

"That explains many, many things, including why muggles' and half-bloods' aren't allowed here." Blaise noted.

"Not only them. In Durmstrang's founding there were recruitment of only the best educated wizards and witches of the region. Others weren't allowed within due to the high volume of knowledge which sat within, the amount of magic both good and bad. A nod to Salazar's descendant for her wisdom, at least. She was proven right when Hogwarts started churning out dead students." Draco added.

The girl before them nodded even as her sandy gold hair was flung into her eyes.

"Many came to the conclusion anyone else would die upon arrival but a few days in. Hogwarts of prestige, Beauxbatons of the rich, Durmstrang of learning. Here, the books on Dark Magic isn't restricted at all. There are librarians and older voluntary students who make sure students are not harmed by cursed books, but otherwise we're free to read on sacrificial rituals and blood magic. It's the handful of younger students who are often mislead, with such books and resources accessible. They're lost, you see, although I can see you are simply confused, by the sudden amount of freedom granted."

"I've been raised very independently, Draco," Blaise whispered in a means of an apology, "the only reason my mother took interest was your mother's intervention."

"It's fine, Blaise." Draco dismissed, distracted by the sudden explosion of black fireworks against the blue sky.

They were lost in the decorations lining the sky before the girl seemed to gather her belongings.

"The Blue Wing's flying classes also deals with the actual theoretical applications of brooms and how they're handled, to the magical duration of flying. A very solid foundation, if you'd take up Quidditch in your second year. I hope to see you then." The girl said to them one last time, nodded her farewell, and moved away.

"The headmistress wouldn't disagree with you joining the Quidditch team."

Draco inclined his head towards Blaise in agreement. Aunt Vivian was the last person to protest a decision of his, although his mother may be more invested in his well-being. He had fallen off a broom in his childhood several times his mother had found the act rather tiring.

"No. I am interested, but there's a few days. There are so much other electives to consider 'till next week, figuring out the rest of my schedule aside from the mandatory classes would take time."

"Electives. The Orange Wing is reserved for 'other activities'. Do you know what that means?" Blaise asked as they pulled out of the crowd to head to their rooms.

"Exactly as it says. Anything the students are inclined to think of, there is. There's groups for certain students from Bulgaria, or France, or Norway, and it's the student representatives of each year which has to oversee them. Sounds important, but the Orange Wing is an empty building where students mess around in certain groups with their group-invested furniture. But there are frequent parties of all excuses, so."

"Not a single waste of space, Durmstrang. I would have found the students' usage of Durmstrang rather overbearing if it weren't for previous experiences."

"It's miserable to imagine such option won't be available otherwise-" Draco trailed off at the sight of Pot sinking its talons into his bedpost.

Last he had seen him was when Aunt Vivian agreed to share Pot with Draco due to his indecision between eagles and owls, so that Draco could write to Luna. Pot squawked, and shook a paper out of his beak.

The heading of the English newspaper he received from Luna was carefully printed in bold letters of how the Boy-Who-Lived had attended Hogwarts. There was a picture of the very boy printed clearly beneath. Harry Potter looked rather frail for someone of his age, smaller physically and unstable mentally as by his roaming eyes and shuffling feet. The photo was taken presumably within a busy street.

Draco nearly missed the letter which was hidden between the paper's folds.

_Dear brother,_

_I've been given permission to visit frequently by floo. Isn't that nice? Maybe Hogwarts and Durmstrang can have a room together, so I could visit next year too._

_Luna._

Draco frowned, before realising she had meant more than simple loneliness. He wrote a short note in reply: _Luna, You would have to find someplace without life, Draco_, before turning to the picture once more, and ultimately turning in need of a second opinion.

"Blaise?" He asked.

In the middle of leafing through a book, Blaise looked up.

"Doesn't he look rather un-wizardly?"

Draco held up the picture for Blaise to assess, to have Blaise nod slowly at the recognisable clothing that seemed rather worn.

"There's two main rumours about him. One says he's been living quite the life in a secure location, praised as the one who defeated him. Another says he'd gone into hiding, and where better could he go than the muggle's world where none would care to search? It's obvious now," Blaise squinted as he held the newspaper closer, "he's been kept unhappy."

"His mother's side, then. How unfortunate to have no knowledge of his heritage, and how fortunate to have no ties in business. He'd have run it to the ground." Draco clicked his tongue.

"Are you invested?" Blaise asked.

Draco took another look at the picture.

"I find it pitiful." He concluded.

...

Classes ranged between stressful to easy for Draco. Draco's lessons with Uncle Jason and Miss Catherine had went from morning to mid-day in his childhood, and Durmstrang's lessons, self-planned depending on the amount of electives, lasted from morning to early evening now. Aside from the mandatory classes he had been assigned on the first week, he had Aerodynamics, Languages, and Pavilion activities spread across the week every other day.

Felis Eriksfrey, Draco and Blaise soon found, was in their year, and was a rather lively boy who seemed much empty headed and loose-lipped at first and second glance. Until the moment Felis Eriksfrey found the situation right to deem his rather informative mouth shut, Draco and Blaise would have written him off as a fool. Yet his honesty was what brought them closer. They had already promised for Felis to move his dorm once more to 21-22's room 21 the following week-end, when they were all very available to help and search for additional hands.

The Friday of that week, Draco held the application rather roughly in his hand as he proceeded to the Blue Wing for his aerodynamics class. Blaise had deigned not to, and these were his exact words: in fear of the harsh climates affecting his skin. His mother, once knowing he was to join, had told his father, and his father, once realising the class was to help him have an influential position in Quidditch, gifted him a broom.

Upon receiving it Draco was grateful, yet knew such 'influence' his mother had passed on in her message was not something he wished to gain through the means of a sport. He had the Pavilion, and several older students he remained friendly with. Besides, Aerodynamics included more information handling of calculating a body's synchronisation with magic, a lesson on positions and strategies on the broom at a lower height for the first few weeks, that he felt it rather unnecessary.

Aunt Vivian had held the broom, ran her eyes over the bristles, and returned it with a nod. It didn't escape his musing that she could have ran diagnostic charms in the split second she had done so.

"Take it as a gift, and send your regards, Draco. He is your father, and he loves you as much as your mother."

Draco had stared, surprised.

"Good morning." A voice said politely, breaking him out of his morning ruminations.

"Oh, look, it's Viktor." Amiea gushed.

A host of girls and boys, done up in exaggerated hairstyles and rather dark eyes repectively, swarmed before him.

"Viktor Krum?" Draco asked for confirmation.

"Yes. The very one. He was quite popular for being able to do a flip on his broom in his aerodynamics class last year. He was scouted into an actual Quidditch team, and the training has made a masterpiece out of him. Just _look_, Draco."

Draco tip-toed, caught a glimpse of Viktor Krum who had stopped his greetings entirely with a strained smile, and fell back on his heels.

"I've met him in passing, but I'm afraid I don't know what I should be looking at."

His words were ignored.

"I may not be interested in Quidditch, but a majority of the students join Aerodynamics because Viktor Krum is the demonstrator."

"Are you referring to yourself?" Draco asked.

"How dare you!" Amiea gasped, "I am nothing like those giggling empty headed idiots who throw themselves at his foot, have some decorum in your accusations!"

And she promptly stalked forward towards those very boys and girls who were crowding ahead.

"Don't mind them. Or any fans of Viktor Krum. They're a species us normalities would have a hard time understanding for the rest of our lives." Nartus appeared beside him.

"He is nice. Polite, strong accent, but I have ran across him several times when I was young. You're joining?"

Draco's opinion of Viktor Krum was not high, or low, but it bordered with enough compassion to be sympathetic to his plight whenever he saw him crowded with students of all sorts in the passages without meaning to. They hadn't had a conversation but their greetings, as Viktor had seen him as a child three years ago.

"No, no, I was invited to do some crowd control. This year has hit Aerodynamics rather hard, as you see, since Viktor came into fame last year. He was in fact designated as the captain of Durmstrang's quidditch team this year and the best seeker we've seen for the past five years, people are saying he'd be flooded with other offers soon after his graduation," the crowd screamed, "and there's my cue. Don't worry, they'll be gone."

Nartus swooped forward with a heavy frown. He pushed through the crowd without a word of apology, greeted Viktor with a solid shake of hands, then turned to shout rather sternly.

"You have ten seconds to clear this place, before I start writing down names. Manners and crowd attitude will be forwarded to the Pavilion in referral of Viktor Krum being restricted from the Blue Wing and restricted entry to the Quidditch grounds for all other students. Ten."

A boy swore, and Amiea soon reappeared next to Draco in her rush to leave.

"Didn't you say you were here to apply?" Draco shouted after her disappearing back.

"Shut it, Malfoy!" A distant shrill voice rang back at him.

Now that a majority had gone Draco could see a heavy, round person sitting on a stool in the forefront, as Viktor Krum whispered worriedly into Nartus' ear. Considering Nartus' threat with his position at stake, Viktor did have a reason to protest rather violently. Draco ignored Nartus' pitiful whines.

"Attention, please! Thank you for applying to Aerodynamics. I am professor Vean Frey Aschdunskii_, _call me professor Vean. I am also in charge of the Quidditch team, a referee, and also happen to teach a few Arithmancy classes. I'm afraid we will not be on any brooms this week, unfortunately, because we're to discuss the scientific details of a broom's manoeuvre, the charms that can or cannot be applied to a broom, and how a broom is made. 

"There will be, also, a lot of numbers. Fractions. The conversion of magic to theory to arithmancy. If you believe you would not be able to cope with numbers, please, take the confidence to rescind your application any time this week. A decision made is rarely given the opportunity to be redone, do it when you can do so."

There were a few shuffling feet, but none turned around. Professor Ash was a rather plump but well-dressed man, with a golden hanging pocket watch by his waistcoat. His colour theme was light grey and red, with silver accents, his shoes a very polished black without a single scratch. He wore a monocle, also silver, and had very bright brown eyes which flickered chocolate under the light. 

Draco could immediately tell Professor Vean was not from high society by his speech, but rather strove to be someone respected. His accessories, however, was rather old, which made Draco wonder where his savings as a professor must have gone when surely, Durmstrang's professors were given a fairer than average compensation. It had been to the point Aunt Vivian had bemoaned her position as Headmaster, as her involvement wasn't worth the gallons received compared to the professor's daily speeches.

"Then, find yourself seated. We will begin with 'How Brooms Float'."

Nartus hurried by him to whisper briefly into his ear of a complaint as Viktor was called to the forefront. 

"Don't involve Quidditch he says," Nartus whispers furiously, "anything but Quidditch. You'd have thought we were famous for our classes, but no, it's Quidditch!"

Nartus left, and Draco suppressed a smile.

Viktor swung his leg, and settled on the broom provided to hover. The class watched, until Draco noticed a few of the older students pulling out their notes and became one of the few who had their quill poised to write.

"Magic works according to intent, and the amount of magic we can control of ourselves. Some have enough to use rashly, others little to use meticulously, and a very few who can control the magic around us, to make it ours, and use our core as the reception between what remains outside and what is within. Brooms are charms, but more than. To hover, it must resist against the magic which remains outside and feeds on your own magical intent.

Draco wrote 'charms, resistance, magic attachments on intent'.

"The first ratio, 70-30. Thirty your weight, seventy the broom's resistance against your weight. And the resistance is what creates the optimal balance, 50 to 50, of the broom's actual weight against your own."

Lost, Draco's quill hovered briefly before he wrote '70 b.resistance to 30 m.weight makes 50 b.weight to 50 b.weight'.

"Look at Viktor. Let us assume his weight is around 140 pounds, to the average weight of a small seeker. The broom's resistance would have to be against him, the weight of additional gears, clothing, and the air's downward resistance when he flies up," Viktor flew higher, "and the air's upward resistance when he flies down," Viktor flew down, "or any movements he makes while on the broom. Now, the Arithmancy of that resistance."

...

_1991 August 3rd_

Jason was often left to deal with the presence of Malfoy manor when Narcissa couldn't find it within herself to settle in their Kettle manor, where Tea often found herself lacking in help. It was on such instance, Vivian occupied with the fresh wave of students, that he went.

"We've tracked down Volley to the Forbidden Forest around Hogwarts," Jason began his greeting as soon as he landed in his apparition, "but he is weak. He feeds off unicorn blood, drifts like a ghost. No-one but Dumbledore had noticed his presence but even with the students flooding his gates, he refuses to act upon him. In my opinion, for the sake of measuring his hero's potential, no matter the risk of others."

Narcissa would have dropped the cup in her hands had she not been standing, for a split moment she had thought of her son in the castle, but as soon as her thought had completed its course she curled her hands tighter around the handle with relief. Her son had gone to Durmstrang, Narcissa recalled.

Narcissa Malfoy was one woman, but Narcissa Black was another. Narcissa Malfoy was what prompted her to move for her son's safety, Narcissa Black was what stood in the court to gain her own advantages. Currently, she was Narcissa Malfoy.

"For what reason, when so many have died since he became Headmaster. His reputation will be dragged through the mud once more." Narcissa commented.

Jason stared at her, and Narcissa observed his eyes contemplating whether the stare was of concern or surprise as Jason, unlike Vivian, didn't portray much emotions aside from the rare moments he genuinely felt compassionate of. Vivian had advised her to look at his eyes when finding him rather difficult to read as all was rather clear depending on its colour. Narcissa had returned a rather dry glare, and she would have done the same now.

"He is Dumbledore. Rather predictable a strategist, unpredictable a human. Unicorn blood. Reported robbery of Gringotts. Dumbledore and Nicholas' letters. We had predicted this long past today, but it was set into motion this evening. With the arrival of Harry Potter, of course, which we would see reported on his house the following Monday."

"Her opinion on Harry Potter was rather mild." Narcissa glanced at the newspaper which cracked against her husband's grasp.

"She knows how it will end. Demanded for us all to loosen our grips and watch, until someone important enters the picture. I know you must play a minor part, someplace, somewhere, as you have not lost your position on the Board, after all."

The last comment had been directed at Lucius, whose release from house-arrest was happening with the next morning. None had commented on the matter, and none had refused the matter. Like all other events in the flow of time, Lucius' release from his home, which had in fact been the least of his concerns, was nothing but allowing his presence into society. Everyone had turned away from the flock of owls which appeared everyday, looked away at his constantly piling documents, at the gold which still ran. 

It hadn't mattered as much as his house arrest hadn't mattered.

"No." Lucius spoke with a false contemplating lift of tone that both, and all, knew was fake.

He wasn't bound to secrecy in all but the unbreakable vows which sealed his tongue and mind. He didn't know who 'she' was, or 'we' referred to, and would not be able to piece together the purpose of their interests. Partly, due to their careful conversations, but mostly, because Vivian had long decided to alter the memories of his stay in both Azkaban and his confinements in detail, where all but his probable normal life retained on the day of his release.

"We're tracking down what could have been Volley's preferences when he had been younger, but we've everything else." Jason turned to Narcissa.

They didn't doubt Lucius Malfoy could piece together the information in another ten years. He was a business man of outstanding abilities, the reason he entered politics, the foundation of his being, he had to have the instinct of sensing the absence of money somewhere, somehow. That was not a willing risk Jason wished to take.

"We're assuming all contacts and slowing all activities. We will not meet again for the next three years, Narcissa. Anything of importance will be by your son, and even he will have nothing but our guide in strengthening himself educationally and physically. It will be his decision to remain for which holidays and when. Our hands are tied," Jason paused, "briefly."

"Normal life." Narcissa entertained bemusedly.

She was considering her husband's manner which had remained constant despite her active part in pushing him into his house arrest. There was not a single change from what had been before, to what had been now, as it was the same politeness she had first witnessed and the same love she had seen directed towards her. It spoke volumes of her husband, and herself, she found his loss of memories and return to 'normal' life without such proof rather disheartening.

But amongst the downsides, above all, she was to lose her drinking partner.

"I suppose I'd miss the extra company for a while."

Jason looked surprised, as she had not referred to whom but them both. Jason had, in fact, enjoyed Narcissa's silent company which was on a large difference from his sister's constant needs. Vivian lapsed into silence on her best days and spoke on her worst, and as life dictated, there were worse days than good.

"I will miss your tea, Narcissa." Jason replied with a smile.

Narcissa stared, and found that Vivian had been right in her observations. Jason's eyes had turned a rather bright hue of brown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A subtle nod to Shanastoryteller’s siat, one of my many inspirations, by the means of Narcissa’s garden.


	7. Draco Malfoy

_1993 July 21st_

"A black hound was sighted leaving Azkaban."

His Aunt's hand wavered in the air before settling to her fountain pen, to which she did nothing with. Uncle Jason moved away and retreating towards the furthest corner of the room. Draco paused in reading out his report.

He had composed it tediously with Luna and Joo-Ha, a complicated page-long summary he managed to write every week between his classes, Quidditch, furious conference preparations, and personal lessons the previous month. He was tired often, he tended to collapse into a chair before he read out his report, but Aunt Vivian's hesitance made his gaze grow sharper and his focus stronger.

Besides, this week he had recovered sufficiently from the holidays, although it was drawing to a close.

"Three days earlier than approximated." Aunt Vivian explained as she recalled her need for the pen.

Draco raised his eyebrow, and didn't question further. He flung his arm over the shoulder of the couch as his blue shirt stretched painfully across his torso. Uncrossing his legs, wincing at the tug on his black pants, he continued reading.

"A werewolf at prospective hiring for Hogwarts, disappearance of 'Dark' wizards and witches in England, decrease of students at Mahoutokoro, Koldovstoretz and the Russian government have passed their limited-entry motion for all foreigners, Castelobruxo is wavering on the matter of closing their exchange student program or continuing it."

"Castelobruxo is contemplating the matter? They're wasting their time."

"Did you do something?"

"No, I'm simply implying that someone will step up and argue that the school should not offer an opportunity for Ilvermorny to expand their influence with Hogwarts by rescinding their tradition. Then all their discussions will die."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Mother, last I've talked to her and not with a letter, told me the British M's sent dementors to the school. Other than being concerned about Luna, she has written me about how uncomfortable it makes her which surely is an understatement, I've gotten an offer for a one-on-one training session with the students at the end of this Quidditch holiday match so I hardly have time to care about those dementors. Viktor's got an offer on the Bulgarian Quidditch Team, which leaves us rather bleak. A private potions competition next week hosted at the Black Wing, I need to start my application for the Crow's Head for this year, and Matthew needs help growing pumpkins for some reason."

Aunt Vivian had stopped her attempt entirely, and was staring at him in contemplation.

"Mother sends her regards." Draco finished, and snapped up the parchment.

He gathered his black robe with a red trim, his shoulder bag, and books before realising that Aunt Vivian was still staring at him. There wasn't the dismissal of 'good luck', which she said in a routine after such a report, and the bookshelves now that he had stood, he found had been moved. Draco turned to his Aunt, stared at her contemplative gaze which was in fact directed to the couch he had been sitting in, and stalked forward.

Yet before he could question the worried gaze, he found that there were marks on her white shirt, faint impressions of a grasp which had once gotten hold of her arm. She looked parched, ink stains on her hand which appeared old. Her hands were lost but steady, her cardigan no where to be seen.

"Were you fighting with someone?" He asked with a frown.

"Nothing so violent, Draco. Just a grasp of arms to stop me from leaving."

"With Uncle Jason? Whatever for? I've never seen you two fight." He threw a glance at his Uncle, who was clearly distracted by the curtains.

Aunt Vivian made an amused hum.

"Siblings fight all the time. I've seen you fight with your friend once over a box of chocolates, there's nothing too different in the way we argue."

Draco wrinkled his nose at the memory of Felis scrambling to steal one of his chocolates his mother had sent, made from a delicacy speciality store in Belgium. He maintained that Felis had deserved to turn into a mouse for that hour, no matter how crude he was in his spell work.

"Well, fine." He snapped.

Unable to pry any further Draco left the room with his Aunt's gaze yet to leave his back, and did not hear the rising voices until he was halfway down the stairs from the second floor to the first.

They were fighting, after all.

"Can't you have faith?" Aunt Vivian's voice travelled down.

"He is a sensitive, prideful child. What remains unaffected in Hogwarts might end the war. He was bound for England by his third year, Vivian, you've suffered through your decisions before we cannot be the ones standing as witnesses any longer. Resolve this, and pry your fingers off."

Uncle Jason, Draco recognised the voice. He had never heard either of them fight, and the implications which came with their discussion turned the gears of his head faster.

"It's done! It's over. What should have been is no longer valid. How long will you hold on to a delusion!"

"My parents have created this, I will not have our House published across the front of newspapers with the likes of this war when it has been traditions for centuries. They are my parents, Livinnis!"

"And Draco is our heir! What, would you have him do? Let it be published, the furthest we'd be known as would be a myth and the most as a false report. Thirty years after the war that would as well be a cut tail. In fifty years an unbelievable aspect. It is not the first time hints of our House's existence had been reported, it will not be the last. If need be we could call in every one of our life debts and still have most left out there."

"This is a war, times when the people are the most sensitive to any news, including propaganda. Have you lost your mind? Don't you remember how people, in ignorance, react to the most useless matters? This is a war, you've lived through centuries of them. When our House crumbles, Livinnis, you will be the sole person responsible."

"_I_ always was," Draco heard his Aunt hiss, "were you ever?"

At the silence Draco stood from the staircase, even as he did he wondered when he had sat, to rush downstairs. 

There was thoughts clashing in his mind as he blindly reached for the door. 

He ran down the underground ramp edging around the corner of the third passage through the elves' quarters in case of a professor. 

He rounded the fourth pillar.

He ran straight into Matthew's back.

Matthew, to his grace, took one look at Draco's flushed face and heaving chest while levitating several pots himself to settle one hand on Draco's shoulder and led him towards the nearest elf.

"Get him a chair. A warmed honey-water. Take these"

Matthew's orders were completed one by one, until Matthew himself was sitting across Draco in the passage corner renovated into a sitting room. Draco, as soon as he had swallowed the first drink at Matthew's glare, felt his tears blurring his eyes.

He was unable to speak of anything he had heard of. Were they from the future, or was it simply told? Were they as old as they claimed to be, or were they talking of the years of experiences transferred to their minds? Who could he talk to? Where could there be possible advice? His occlumency walls were well-built although his legilimency was rather weak, a rather contrary effect of having many legilimens around him, and it slammed into the forefront of his mind in full force in his own fear of allowing his tongue to slip. His eye turned dazed as an escaping sob was startled into silence.

Matthew, forgotten in Draco's perspective and clearly startled, snapped his fingers before Draco's eyes.

"I'm no legilimens," Matthew snarled, "drop that. What a nasty habit you've got there. Olphey, bring some truffles please."

A plate of chocolate truffles appeared, and Draco was, once again, forced into eating one. Giving the same effect as the first sip of honeyed water, Draco sniffed. Matthew leaned back in his chair and watched him in silence.

"I'm due for the Headmistress' soon. Hurry up." Matthew's voice was hurried, but trailed in an effort not to sound as harsh.

Surprisingly, Matthew's voice didn't grate on Draco's nerves as much. His thin, pale frame looked more fragile than threatening, his light brown eyes closer to yellow than brown, and Draco noted that his hair was more silver than grey.

"I wouldn't recommend that, Matthew." Draco spoke with a strained smile, "she has another visitor."

Matthew snorted.

"Visitor or not, I won't do her work for her. I've had to personally rid a third of this pile," Matthew clicked his fingers to the appearance of a stack of papers on the ground, "and I refuse to do more."

They disappeared with a second click, while Draco was left reeling at what had been a tower of papers which reached his head.

"Impressive." He strangled out.

"Impressive, yes. Students see me trying to clean up after their mess during passing they don't realise I'm doing half of the Headmistress' work. Better than Karkaroff, he made me do more than half, sure, he did." Matthew ranted, "nothing more than papers, he'd say, and leave them on his desk to go mingle with people I'd never heard of. Scrambling for reputation. So much on reputation. Why, if everything I had done for Durmstrang was recorded word by word I would have had a better reputation than Karkaroff himself, that coward."

"Weren't you mad," Draco intervened hesitantly, "that no-one seems to know what you've done?"

"Mad? Of course, 'course, more than once. Especially when some of the students think I'm lesser than an elf, all polite but demanding, I've ignored them all."

Draco leaned forward. Perhaps it was an instinct, but this was one of those inexplicable moments in life where one felt closer to facing the truth, realising something great, understanding something important.

"Then, Matthew. Why didn't you be headmaster yourself?"

Matthew stared at him.

"Draco, was it? Your Aunt will only be a passing face, a portrait to be hung by the other Headmasters and Headmistresses of Durmstrang. But me, I'm Durmstrang itself. It can't run without me," Matthew laughed, "whoever comes to my position next will be struggling to fill my space. No-one would have done better or more than I have, for the past fifty years. Not at all. People will say in a hundred years, "do you remember old Matthew? He always told me where to go" and "Matthew? Oh, he worked at Durmstrang. Good old man". That is what they would say."

"But Dumbledore." Draco insisted.

"Albus Dumbledore? Ha. How many would praise him for being Headmaster, I wonder? How many would recall him fondly as a figurehead of Hogwarts rather than a strategist and mentor? Nein, nein, everywhere I walk I am greeted with smiling faces, fond faces. Dumbledore walks down streets with fear and awe in every greeting received. I am known for my own purpose. A good, respectful purpose."

"How did you find that purpose?" Draco asked desperately.

Matthew hummed. He stared at the ceiling, then at his hand, then noticed the time which ticked on his wrist.

"Oh, it's past time. It's always young boys like you who stay past midnight, go to your dorm. Olphey, get him to bed please. By Merlin's beard, it's two!"

"But Matthew." Draco leaned around the elf's tug.

"Grew into it." Matthew threw down the words as he left.

...

Vivian had once mused about the identity crisis which approached mid-life, when there was success as of current and failure in the future. She had similarly warned Draco of the matter, as young as he was, in terms that he could understand. Jason had looked on with half a sigh lingering in his voice, as she hoped for the best with all the maturity she had given him.

But she was gazing at the same boy before her, in all his near thirteen years of age, with an identity crisis.

Perhaps the blame fell upon her shoulders, as she had wished his faster maturity and made it so. She had shown life and death in equal measures, noticeable even when he roamed the courts with his friends. The lingering sense of depression, the knowledge of good and bad and the in-between. Questionable morals and thoughts.

What remained before him was a path of blood and tears.

Vivian's gaze wavered even as she maintained what remained of her sanity. War, she thought once more, this was to prepare him for war. She couldn't have prepared him better.

"My, have you been listening in our conversations?" She asked absently.

"I did not intend to. But tell me, don't distract me. Should I remain loyal to a cause, or live befitting the life of a Malfoy?"

"That is not something I can answer on your behalf," Vivian whispered as she reached for his hands, "nor is it something that can be answered now."

His hands gathered in hers were half of it's size. Small, young, still innocent.

"I have never asked, and you have never answered. But we know the question remains, Draco Malfoy. Will you be the heir, or will you not? Will you head to Hogwarts for dedication, or will you remain here and fulfil what minimal role you play? No-one requires you to do anything, no-one benefits or loses from your decision. This time, you're on your own."

His hands were trembling.

"I don't know, Aunt Vi." He said curtly, and his eyes took on a sheen of glaze.

"I don't know either, Draco. This is a question, a decision, which has no right or wrong answer. Many, many choices in life will be exactly like this and if you don't answer, if you bend, you will remain defeated in the future. That, too, will be your decision."

"So, you're saying I should go to Hogwarts?"

"No. A decision, whether to stay or leave, has to be from you. Staying is a decision, leaving is a decision. But if you chose neither, and continue to remain vague on the matter, you will remain lost on all matters. Do you understand?"

"I don't," Draco cried out, "I don't know!"

"You still have a few days, Draco. Hours, seconds. Time."

Vivian rose from the ground, as she had long levelled herself do the boy's height by her knees, and turned to Jason who lurked silently in the corner. They hadn't exchanged a word since Draco had entered the room in their second heated exchange. 7 o' clock in the morning; the curtains remained closed, the room dark and stiff.

"There is no time," Draco said bitterly, "the holidays are coming to a close. There is little which could prepare me for a transfer at this point of school, there will be none before the day itself."

"There is always time. People think they have a limited amount of time to think, no-one realises how thoughts can outrun a single second of hesitation or conclusion. You're not writing, Draco. You are thinking. That takes less then the effort to move your hands, I assure you, you have time."

She had released Lucius Malfoy by the end of Draco's first year of school just in time for the man to act his part of the story. But she was not going to do the same towards Draco. Everyone had sworn not to mess with his memories, or judgements, or growth, and what stood before her was of Draco's own making. Erlnier Fawley was only the best of what Draco could offer, and if he did not figure that out now, he was going to suffer in insecurity.

"Do you need to visit the Manor, or the Kettle?" Jason asked quietly.

"The Manor. My father."

Vivian nodded.

"Weren't you two fighting?" Draco asked in return.

Vivian turned back to Draco with a displeased frown, as she would have preferred him to deny any espionage as was their basic rule. Jason rolled a shoulder, a careless yet much orderly shrug.

"We may discuss the semantics of a siblings' relationship once you discover how long a grudge you will be able to hold against Luna."

"You were discussing the future and the past," Draco began, "I had no sleep thinking too deeply into my own matters, but that also means your conversations was butchered word for word, which brings to the question of centuries of war and the House of Fawley. There's something you haven't told me, even after the strenuous lessons, something you've both omitted."

Draco had not cried, he could insist that he had not and find no evidence of doing so, but he could finally feel the sheen of wetness lining his eyes retreat.

"There is nothing much to tell." Jason answered.

"The House of Fawley does leave evidence of our existence. A student with the name of Fawley, a minister with the name of Fawley, houses, books, records. We've never disappeared from the public eye as a part of the sacred twenty-eight, but we've similarly never revealed the depths of our influence. The ones we leave in the public are ostracised, they live unknown to us and us unknown to them."

"A face."

"Yes. The first face people see, will be them. The second, a few records. Third, an ancestral joining of the sacred twenty-eight through many, many bloodlines, and fourth, the finished line of the Flamel through myself. Fifth, our dear Jason from a muggle family, and where else could they go but run to a dead end? It's the reason the Heads are unaffiliated by blood but talent."

"The centuries of war?"

"The memories, darling. Although there is much relief that you have maintained your own consciousness from the onslaught Catherine administers each week, the method which had first been was much less refined. In the end, there's nothing to it but my fond reference."

"I don't believe you." Draco blinked as he peered into her eyes.

"And you have no idea how happy I am to hear as much."

"What?"

Jason gave him a glass object he took instinctively, as it was thrown, and before he could object to the harsh pull of his magic the port-key ripped him through the wards of his Manor.

He landed in his father's office with a glass paper weight in hand.

Draco swore gently, a soft _'merde'_ passing through his lips before he oriented himself to gravity. 

"What warrants your sudden return?"

He looked up, his father's heels clicking against the floor as he stood. Draco nearly tripped on the glazed floors even as he was lent a helping hand by the nearest elf, which he thanked absently.

"I had to ask you something, Father, so one of the professors allowed me to take the port-key you've given me." The lie fell smoothly through a blank, and slightly unfocused look.

He was allowing his magic to run rather rampant despite his instincts to quell and steady its strains against taking such heavy magic. Capable, but incapable, Draco felt his body tilt lightly before a hand held on to the collar of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. He was seated to the nearest chair by a large hand pressed upon his back, and somehow, he felt more at home than he had ever been.

"Take the floo next time," his father said with elongated words, "I see you're too weak to take any port-keys yet."

"I can!" Draco disagreed, "but I need to ask you something."

Lucius clucked his tongue at Draco's insistence, and had Draco been lesser he would have shied from his own outburst and muttered an apology. But he didn't, he had not met his father when he was five, so he simply swung his legs like any other children.

"What is it." His father sighed.

"Would you have preferred me to attend Hogwarts, or Durmstrang?"

"What is so urgent about this," Lucius Malfoy settled in his chair, "that you had to return from unpacking your bag? I thought you've requested early leave just to greet your friends ahead of others?"

"I overheard someone talking about me. A new professor of Spells. He asked the Headmistress why I was at Durmstrang, and not Hogwarts, when I had years of tradition to uphold. So, I wanted to ask whether this tradition was better for my well-being, or Durmstrang as a school."

"Is that all you've overheard?" His father frowned.

"Well, no, but that's the gist of their conversation."

Draco watched his father lean back into his chair, his posture unmoved from the sudden support lining his back. They stared at one another, Draco wishing for an indication of his future.

"I would have agreed to your mother's insistence upon Hogwarts a few months prior. But with Dumbledore's incapable hand," here, he lifted a corner of his mouth in a sneer, "I am satisfied with your stay at Durmstrang."

"But, the tradition..." Draco trailed hesitantly.

"Safety before traditions, Draco. There are dangers lurking at Hogwarts even if you have the claim of protection as a pure-blood. Our concerns are better off with you in an environment where everyone knows the precautions of safety."

"What if, what if I ask you to send me to Hogwarts this year? I'm a Malfoy, you said I must act like a Malfoy." Draco spoke helplessly.

His lost voice was not all an act, he did feel helpless after all. He had felt lost since the night prior, and was feeling even more so by the lack of answers the adults around him was giving. Therefore, while he gazed at the floor with hesitant frustration, he did not notice Lucius' eyes widening the slightest amount or his mouth closing from the starting sentence he did not voice. If he had, Draco would have similarly been startled by the much humane aspect of his father he rarely saw.

"Then, Draco, I would see to it that you are where you want to be."

Draco's head snapped up.

"You would?"

His father nodded once, curtly. The nod was severe, solemn, something that should not have been indicated towards a child. But that was his father's methods, and Draco was lost even more in the acceptance which all but been shouted at his face.

"I would have to speak more freely with the Board of Governors regarding Dumbledore's lack of priorities, if you decide to transfer, but that can be done rather quickly." Lucius eyes the quill which sat by the corner of his desk.

"So, what would it be, Draco?"


	8. Blaise Zabini

When Blaise appeared in a fit of hardy stubbornness by the foot of Platform 9 and 3/4, there were many trespassing, overwhelming emotions which flooded Draco's mind.

Between the two, there hadn't been heartfelt conversations perhaps a few confessions, but none so detrimental to their private lives. There were secrets one simply didn't tell others, and so it had been for them. Yet when Draco found Blaise's distinct figure in the crowd of chattering students, and Blaise met Draco's eyes steadily, then, was there something irrevocably changed in their trust. It was too strong a foundation for two young children to build upon, they had but reached 13 years of age.

Draco, however, was more of naive maturity, and Blaise of soiled immaturity, they later pointed to this day as the moment when their friendship finally fell together.

Aunt Vivian stood next to them with levitating trunks in a trail behind her, five large, black, golden-framed trunks which made people glance once, and turn once more, with an attire she declared formal. A hair-stick of silver with engravings so minuscule Draco hadn't bothered to ask held her hair, while a rather provocatively open white dress shirt remained crisply tucked into black shorts.

They had not asked her for help, nor had she offered. But they certainly hadn't denied her presence when she claimed one of the suitcases to be the charmed expanded replicate of Durmstrang's dorm-room 22.

"It doesn't have anything but a bed, and the standard furniture. The case snaps shut when someone's inside, and unlocks when vacant. Compartment-charmed, one for strangers and the other an entrance." Aunt Vivian explained as she helped their cases onto the train, "other qualities included, but it would be a delight to watch you both struggle."

His mother and Mrs. Zabini were less than enthusiastic at the prospect, but were used to the Headmistress' inclinations. Vivian Fall roamed Durmstrang during days she found herself bored, and messed with the dimensional pinches which were scattered throughout the school's passages when the boredom wasn't defeated. She was, similarly, the first and last complaint of the students' reasons for lateness.

They peered at their mothers through the window, and their mothers stared in return, until the train began to launch.

The manner of the farewells conducted were much more dramatic than Durmstrang's parting scene by the castle's gate.

Draco and Blaise did not participate, and instead settled into their seats.

"Don't be greedy, children," Aunt Vivian patted their heads, "and do try to share."

Aunt Vivian stilled when Draco and Blaise turned to glare at her, observing their faces as though it was to be the last to see them. And before she stepped off the moving train, before she walked away, she stroked their hair, once, to whisper, "you truly do look different."

Draco took another glance outside, and found his father next to his mother. He frowned.

"Do you think our parents are going overboard with such semantics, or is it the dramatics of the other wailing children?"

"Both." Blaise groaned out as he closed the blinds of their unit.

"So would you consider it our best interest to join the crowd, or remain as impassive?"

"No."

Draco frowned at Blaise who slumped in his seat.

"When did you decide to come?"

"This morning."

Draco crossed his arms and legs, and leaned back incredulously. An impulsive Blaise, Draco noted, resulted in an affectionate Mrs. Zabini. He could read the worry vibrating off her usually stoic, in which symbolised sexual, features.

"Zabini!"

Draco's magic stirred instinctively at the shrill voice, although he did not deign to move, it pointed viciously towards the door at guard before he saw the rather flat-nosed girl barging into their cabin, upsetting the blinds. She gave him an assessing look before turning to Blaise once more and clawing him upright with her nails.

"How dare you inform me such an important matter before dawn. Didn't I tell you anything crossing an expression in the morning would leave marks on my skin? Look, you've given me a wrinkle. Here!"

"Pansy." Blaise sighed.

"Pansy?" Draco echoed, "of the Parkinson's?"

The very Pansy Parkinson turned to him in an exaggerated twirl.

"And who might you be?" She demanded.

Draco had wished not to meet anyone before his introduction to the Slytherins. In fact, when they had both decided to enter such a house with the surprise of realising how divided Hogwarts seemed to be, the last thing Draco had wished to confront were the students themselves, which was why they had seated themselves at such early hours.

"Draco Malfoy, pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Parkinson." Draco nodded.

"Oh!" She screamed, "I knew it! You are a Malfoy! I couldn't have missed that shade of blond anywhere."

"I'm pleased to hear you're an acquaintance of my family," Draco replied, "I've heard much about your involvement within the design and fashion boundaries within social circles."

"I've not heard much from Blaise, but as a favoured student of Durmstrang, you seemed to be most involved in the political sector," Pansy's eyes bore into his, "there are less than brighter student in Hogwarts, but much filthier words exchanged. Rumours, similarly, tend to be exaggerated."

"It's reassuring to know I've been told as a better figure than what I've assumed myself to be." Draco smiled.

"How bold of you to assume they were positive."

"The Headmistress of Durmstrang wouldn't have allowed anything less."

"Oh," Pansy said with amusement, "how pretty."

"Enough." Blaise moaned.

Draco and Pansy exchanged a mutually compromising smile before Pansy dragged Blaise out of his sleep once more. The train rattled as it continued to speed.

"Now, Blaise," Pansy clawed Blaise's shoulder, "we've been waiting for your return. It's less than polite to leave us waiting, don't you think? Perhaps an introductory greeting of your fellow friend for us to tear into?"

"No, Pansy."

Pansy sniffed.

"Very well. I'll tell them so."

Blaise looked as though he wished to throttle her, and Draco, similarly, wished to know her standing. But Blaise stood, dragging Pansy out with him, upsetting the blinds once more. They had disappeared without a word long before Draco could question Blaise's sudden motivation.

Settling, finally, into the seat he had long considered his own Draco realigned the blinds as he waited. He pulled out a book, dozed, and was beginning to fall deaf when a knock rattled the fragile glass. The door opened before he could permit entry.

"Luna." Draco smiled, and opened his arms tiredly.

"Draco," Luna's eyes wavered even as she lay down on top of him in return of the embrace, "Draco. There's something wrong."

"What is it?" Draco bit out before yawning.

"The train, it's crying cold."

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he made to get up, which Luna moved for his convenience but refused to let go. Concentrating, Draco felt his magic fray at the forefront of the conductor's cabin, a cold which ran down his spine and curled intrusively around his core.

"Dementors." Luna whispered into his robe, "it's not near. But it's there. It's right there. Not near, but there."

"Well," Draco said as he pulled out his wand, "I would have rather it been protocol, but your reactions tells me otherwise."

"It's not moving but it's there."

"Yes, I can hear."

He could hear the winter's wind, crisp and sharp with nothing obstructing its path, a void of nothingness yet willing all the same. He ran through what he had, but found nothing which could be of use in locking a dementor within or out, and ran his hand through his hair. Blaise had left a fair approximation of ten minutes before Luna stepped in, so under the assumption he was safe, Draco could lock the cabin, but how was that going to be of any use?

Luna separated herself, but not without Draco's robes at hand which he had willingly given at the pull. She cornered herself furthest from the door, but what space was there to run?

Until, Draco recalled the suitcase Aunt Vivian had casually given, and swore at her under his breath.

"Luna. Luna, I need you to find a brown suitcase. It has silver latches on it, do you hear me?"

Luna nodded.

Draco raised his wand against the door, because the screaming wind was louder against his ear, and imagined every conjecture of magic possible before realising there was none he could produce effective against a dementor he had not studied. There had been no reason to, although it's appearance was briefly read in his fast research of the Wizarding Ministries' conduct and management. He only regretted not diving further into the matter, yet he wouldn't have known students would have been left to such a creature at large.

No, not at all.

"Here." Luna whispered into the silence.

"Drag it down. Thank you, Luna."

Hands fumbling against the latch, he winced and bit back a curse at a sudden prickle against his thumb. When he drew back, blood had pooled against the surface and was trailing down the better of his hand, but with the frigid scream of a wind in void drawing closer he unclasped it anyways.

"In, Luna."

"But you?"

"I hardly think it's going to go after me."

_Happiness_, he had read, _it's only feed, happiness._ In his opinion, Luna had more happiness than himself. Luna didn't nod or voice an agreement but stumbled into the suitcase at the shadow of its presence, causing Draco to regret sitting at the forefront of the train even as he closed the lid.

The dementor hovered, there was another which passed his cabin uncaring of him or the dementor which remained. It was moving with purpose, Draco realised, because its trails which was the length of two cabins combined refused to stop. The first which had paused before his door reigned back its hand, a sharp wisp of cold frosting his glass, and it pulled away as sudden as it came.

Its trailing shadow flickered against the moonlight. The blinds, still drawn, stilled against the window.

Draco slid onto the floor.

...

Draco heard magic's movements, Luna felt it on her skin. Blaise could point out distinct scents of magic. Felis could dream of it. His mother described it as specks of light, while his father described it as shades.

He could still hear the lingering howl caressing his face.

"Draco?"

His fingers ran over the folds of his robes. Despite the howl, despite the stillness of the air, his head raced against the sensations because, of many there was one thing he couldn't comprehend, the reason behind the dementors themselves. Perhaps he was slow on the uptake as several students looked as expectant as they were.

"Draco?"

Azkaban's guards had been invited to Hogwarts, that, he knew. But would Albus Dumbledore be so lacking as to consider placing such creatures on board the same train of his students? Or was there something...

"Erlnier?"

Draco flinched at Luna's whisper against his ear.

"You know better than that," he hissed.

"I called you twice." Luna frowned.

Draco sighed, but gave her a sharp nod. Until, finally, he came to the realisation, his trunks dropping to the cold stones and his hand falling from their listless movements. Luna stared back at him, a newspaper underneath her feet.

"Sirius Black." Draco murmured.

"Oh."

Her gaze fell to the papers, turned back towards Draco, until the tilt of her head gave away her understanding.

"But why?" She spoke softly.

Their voices hadn't rose beyond the chattering of the students of some excitement, and their two still figures had certainly been buried beneath the vibrating crowd eager to gain a glimpse of something, but without a chance to consider his reply the crowd surged. Luna's hand raked against his as immediately as they were pushed, the crowd parting in several directions they were at a loss in their steps. Noticing Blaise not a few paces away, Draco pushed towards the boy, his luggage back in grasp. Luna sneezed.

The air was humid.

They watched their steps having realised it was impossible to catch up to Blaise, but without a mind to be quelled by such a foreign place Draco moved ahead. The only thing he took note of was a mild voice of some professor's apology as they bodies knocked, his shoulder against the torso, to which Draco had ignored a response of kind in an attempt not to lose his grip on both his belongings and Luna's hands.

He was the only student now, who was carrying luggage when the others had clearly boarded the Thestrals's carriages with bare hands. However, that reassuring, firm grip he had on his cases was soon wrestled away somehow, he assumed was the elves, before he placed a foot inside the black carriage. He gathered his breath and regained his warmth by the time he found himself seated.

"Sirius Black," Draco started as he accepted a chocolate frog from Luna, "escaped prisoner of Azkaban, searched for and declared wanted dead or alive. That was all I managed to read, but it gives enough. Dead, preferably, means dementors, and dementors on a train bound to Hogwarts, say, there's nothing less than to presume Sirius Black is at Hogwarts. And nothing more than the assumption Dumbledore knows Sirius Black is in his own school, or is harbouring the man himself."

"But there was a dog."

Draco's eyes snapped up towards Luna as he swallowed the frog's head.

"What about a dog?"

"The dog which escaped Azkaban."

"There was such a report," Draco frowned, "which coincides with Sirius Black's escape. You're referring to an animagus."

Luna hummed.

"Mother may know, as much as this explains why Aunt Vivian had shown such-" Draco stilled. "Is _this_ why she and Uncle Jason-."

The Thestrals which moved their carriages tilted their heads, and a few screams, delighted and frightened, ringing the air thinly. Dementors trailed behind them, ahead of them, beside them, flocking a march of the moving dead. But Draco couldn't have cared less, and Luna more invested in Draco's musings as she made him hold another frog, that by the time the ride had ended they had missed the sight of a black serenade against the night sky.

"Draco, we're here. Hogwarts."

Draco looked out of the window, and saw that they had already come to a stop. The castle's oak doors were flung open, and he could see the light spilling on the stairs from where he sat. The name 'Hogwarts', however, had already begun to sound like an uttered curse to his ears. He leant out as he unlocked the latch, and sighed once more at the flood of disorganised students. Thinking of asking Luna her opinion, he turned, but she had already moved to brush past him.

They clasped their hands once more, a final reassuring brush of shoulders, before they both pulled away. He could see Blaise standing idly by the gates, first to have climbed the stairs. Until, someone landed their chin rather squarely on his back.

"Sorry," a voice came from behind.

Draco didn't bother but to spare a brief glance.

"It's fine."

Eyes trained on Blaise, he moved up the stairs. They didn't pass a greeting but a cursory overview of each other, a slight lift of an inquiring eyebrow and assurance that neither looked damaged visibly. They trailed in, a well-decorated hall greeting the flock of student by their right, before a shrill voice called out to them.

"Mr. Malfoy and Zabini!"

Several eyes swung, Blaise hissed. Their transition, which had been promised to be kept unassuming for an integration that would not be announced, had been ruined with that simple call. He leaned into Draco's side, and whispered unmoving.

"Professor McGonagall, of Transfiguration. Head of Gryffindor House. Second to the Headmaster."

Draco nodded with a frown.

"With me. The Headmaster wishes to see you both."

Draco held his tongue, despite the urge to point out how she had garnered even more attention by the following words. From the dementors to the Thestrals, and even the professor, Hogwarts was becoming even more a loud, obnoxious irritation on his skin. They followed the professor through corridors with low whispers.

"Tell me all you know of Sirius Black."

"Your mother would know better," Blaise returned, "but most of the Hogwarts faculty, as much say they have over the Ministry, believes him a danger to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The news stated that he was after him to finish a deed he had not finished in the past, the murder of James and Lily Potter. Twelve certain deaths as rumoured, one death unconfirmed."

"As rumoured?" Draco repeated incredulously.

""A bright, blinding light which killed twelve", was what the papers said. One unconfirmed but a finger, the supposed death of Peter Pettigrew. A friend."

"Does this ministry run on assumptions, or is it the gossip column which overruns the ministry?"

Blaise rolled his eyes.

"There's nothing as uncertain as a destabilised ministry after years of conflict, you know this as well as I do."

Draco reigned in a laugh, but couldn't hold back a mocking smile.

"A harder shell or wasted amber. How fitting."

They hadn't passed more than a few paces down they were settled at the Headmaster's office. Draco took in as much as he could, a revolving staircase had been the least of his surprise but the objects which sat around Dumbledore's room, not as dangerous than his aunt's as Headmistress but unguarded, and left open if anyone had but a mind to overhear the password at the right time.

He could assume, for one, the portraits in the hall were meant to act as something resembling the wards which covered nothing of Hogwarts. That, was similar to Durmstrang's open facilities, but to find there had been no guard against outsiders for the personal spaces of one's own was not as pleasing to find. They were made to wait before his desk, seated.

"Is that a revolver?" Draco questioned incredulously.

"A what?"

"There's a loaded revolver on the Headmaster's desk. He's using a weapon as a paper-weight for his papers. And a time-turner, just there. I suppose he assumes anything which looks like a decoration must be a decoration."

Blaise turned in his chair and took a searching glance at the painting Draco pointed towards.

"It is." He rasped.

"A pensieve alter, an arrangement of port-keys under the guise of collectable trinkets, this room could as well be a reason for enticement than being an enticement."

Draco's hand fluttered over the newspaper strewn over the desk before ceasing. By the very corner, was an application for a position in Defence Against the Dark Arts by the name of Remus Lupin. There was another set of letters to the side, addressed to a Percival, and finally, their formal applications to a student exchange program, second in recorded history between Durmstrang. Without reluctance, Draco immediately grasped those to hand, then to the nearest fire, despite the disapproving stare of another portrait far within.

Blaise didn't argue or ask, but stared rather relentlessly at the room's designs, before turning to Draco.

"They should be done with the Sorting of the Houses by now. Each student to a house, then the feast which we are supposedly meant to starve, until the Headmaster deigns to remember us."

"No," Draco lowered his voice, "I don't think so."

Blaise slumped in his chair and found meticulous curiosity of his robes, while Draco began:

"And so, you see, Hogwarts is vastly different from Durmstrang by the means of its flimsy appearance. As grand as it might be, a castle can't possibly compare to a fortress, can't you understand?"

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco flinched around his seat.

Albus Dumbledore emerged from the stairs.

Draco, and by the confusion of blinks, Blaise, felt something missing.

"Aunt Vivian." Draco breathed in, and Blaise similarly nodded in understanding.

Vivian Fall, Headmistress of Durmstrang, was a woman of many capabilities which were rumoured, and unconfirmed. But now, they could sense the loss of heaviness which lingered around a figure such as the Headmasters of a school, the weight which had settled around their shoulders within the grounds, the grounding pressure before professors, Draco could finally admit the reason behind his instant dislike for Hogwarts.

It was the lack of protection, the security of those more capable, the power which enveloped them in warmth rather than the void, a greeting which made them stand firmer than causing the loss of a composure. The lax method of introductions, the loose movements, not a single soul of alertness to be seen. That, was what had grated on his nerves. To find that Albus Dumbledore, the wizard of his age, carried less than what his Aunt could stand to constrain was no less concerning than the manner in which he had cringed at Hogwart's incapability on the train.

His appearance explained everything to Draco, including his father's disdain. Durmstrang of learning, Beauxbatons of the rich, Hogwarts of prestige.

"I must say, it was a surprise to have two, very eager students from Durmstrang to greet our halls," Dumbledore rumbled softly, "and I must extend our warmest welcome."

"Thank you, sir." Blaise nodded.

"But I am afraid there had been a miscommunication, somewhere between our exchange. It is a rite of Hogwarts to greet students by the Sorting Hat. It appears, to me, that I have failed to mention the need for such tradition to be upheld."

Draco avoided narrowing his eyes, instead allowing unreasonable anger to take over. His head calculated the lurch of his head, the folding of his arms, and finally, for a greater impact, the slight stomp of his foot.

"That's not what we're told, we're meant to go to Slytherin! She said so!"

Blaise, fortunately, didn't turn a terrified eye to his acting but rather patted his shoulder in consolidation.

"It's okay, Draco. We can go back if you want, it's okay."

"Really?" Draco turned his shining, wide eyes on his friend.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Dumbledore smiled, "the hat is but a purpose. A mutual respect of opinions are given, accordingly."

Draco pouted.

"It's a hat which has sat on countless heads, it's dirty."

"Oh? Is that what you think?"

Draco flung his arms apart, the hat behind Dumbledore shifting, and was as startled as a thirteen-years-old could be.

"It talked!"

"I've heard of it," Blaise whispered loudly, "it can apparently talk in your head, too."

Draco's occlumency walls rose as instantly as the words were formed, as he started in slight consternation of how invasive the process could be. He could smell charms upon charms of interlocking magic on the hat's fabric, woven into its threads and rather firmly settled in a runic combination down the inside seams he observed in its flicker. He had not met Dumbledore's gaze directly, but with a definite reason not to, he stared harshly in Blaise's vague direction in mock indignation.

"I'm a Slytherin!" He announced, and stood.

"Mr. Malfoy, do take a seat. It won't be but a second."

The hat settled across his head, a movement rather unlikely but with the aid of magic, and the hat's snide expression fell passive.

"That's cheating." Blaise declared solemnly.

"Slytherin!" The hat announced.

"See! Slytherin! Now can we go? I'm hungry." Draco whined.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco latched onto Blaise's arm, and tugged him forward without considering Blaise's dislike for sudden physical contact. And for once, Blaise didn't complain of how hurried Draco had been, how fast they crossed the breadth of the room, because it was only so that they could escape further questioning on Blaise's part.

It was only when they walked down the last of the corridor, that Draco snarled.

"He calls himself a Headmaster," Draco said in the walls free of portraits, in a voice less than a whisper, "when he has more than an inconvenience in favouritism."

A hint of relief edged his voice. He knew how the mind worked, the separation of clarity, the sub-consciousness, the division of his thoughts. Miss Catherine wouldn't have had him know any less, Blaise wouldn't have stood for the same, although there was a greater chance of his sorting to Slytherin than Draco himself. So he sighed, a mix of frustration and relief with upturned eyes more wary than what belonged on a student his age, while Blaise watched with a lingering smile no less than Draco's relief.

"It's a fair game, here, at Hogwarts. The passages are the same as my mother described. Down there, to the left, and pass the lower stairs towards the dungeons."

...

Draco had not bothered with arranging his classes save a cursory glance when Aunt Vivian had first offered. But there was Arithmancy, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Astronomy. To Draco, and Erlnier, who had his days once packed with alternating schedules between Miss Catherine's restless memory-search and Uncle Jason's unforgiving political sessions it was more than empty. He had attended meetings at the Pavilion after rounds of students' filing complaints and taken midnight classes in the dark at the Forest of Raging Fell by the fortress' collapsed wall. He feared, most of all, that he would lose the experiences gained than earning any in improvement.

Blaise's schedule resembled his as much as their discussed choices. They paired in every class, some shared with other Houses in what seemed to be an effort of unity. But that, too, would have only applied when the professor's weren't as loyal to their houses as the students were, an impartiality and stubbornness shining through every brief moment of decision between the awarding of point and compliments.

The only fair interest which had caught Draco's eye was the girl who sat in every class as himself and Blaise, not a single one to be missed. From the chain around her neck he had once glimpsed he could only assume she was using a turner, the ministry issued ones of a hour's turn. And because they took every class, because Blaise was often pulled away by his childhood friends, because Draco hadn't established his place within the Slytherin hierarchy, Draco sometimes found himself paired with the girl who was always the last to enter and first to leave.

He admitted, although the constraints of his own House remained, she was his equal in all things known save the political and traditional affairs of both the Wizarding and Muggle world.

"Are you fine, Granger?"

She tilted forward dangerously at the edge of her seat during Arithmancy with tension trickling around her every gesture. Straightening herself, she gave him a very sure nod, and continued to write what consisted of her own part of the project, the details of how an overlaying charm of two protego would cause in reaction of consecutive or simultaneous casting. Draco, in fact, hadn't spoke to her much, and the question was the third time he had initiated a conversation.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"Not to doubt your capability, but a single error would cause an overhaul of the entire project. If you feel unwell, there will always be more time to complete it later."

The girl stared at him.

"Don't worry yourself," Draco continued and smiled reassuringly, "I am experienced in the usages of time turners and the projections of time, the way a magic concentrates in a point of day, it was hard to miss. Under the assumption you are responsible enough with such a devotion for knowledge, I haven't spoken a word."

"Oh," she said, "thank you."

"And here, the reason why you were stopped," Draco pointed towards a sequence of magic on her parchment, "the first light and second are, in fact, three-and-a-half of the third, but you've managed a fourth. A common mistake, not to mention, something you wouldn't have made on a better day. If this is your first time using a turner, a fine recommendation would be spreading out your hours not in overlap but as a consecutive link, so you could plan how to use the spare hours more wisely than under the assumption a spin is the restart of an hour."

Draco began to put away his belongings, and even took the girl's parchment of her project to his bag.

"You're smarter than the few I've seen here, Durmstrang would have been a fitting school had you been born with access to both sides of the world. The project is to be turned on the morrow, and mistakes would be unbearable. Sort your time, Granger, in the little hour I've spared."

The professor clapped. Draco pulled his messenger bag to his shoulder, and took another look at the amusing sight of the girl's hanging mouth coupled with her frazzled hair. Unable to stop a smile he did as his instinct dictated, a fond smile splitting across his face, because he could imagine Miss Catherine scoffing right behind her at his lacking explanation, snorting at his pretence of knowing time magic, ridiculing him, but smiling with a proud glint to her eyes.

"You owe me one." Draco finished.

Blaise pulled him by his elbow before he could take further steps out of class, dragging him right outside the door and speeding down the corridor. It was with a gentle but firm hand.

"They are watching. You shouldn't have associated yourself with her, was doing so well maintaining a polite façade, couldn't have stopped a single smile?"

"She owes me a favour, the first of the year. Don't you think, once they come to such a realisation, they would think otherwise of my actions?"

"In the case you are implying that social activities are more than trying." Blaise sighed

"I haven't even begun!"

"But you are planning to."

"The Pavilion was more trying than this gossip-ridden place," Draco said, "attention is easily gathered, words spread faster than magic, and commotions are more frequent than potions gone wrong. There are so many chances, Blaise, and what's any crowd control better than giving what they want? A gossip enough to lure both their attentions, by a commotion which occurs in the place where they live, imagine the sight."

Blaise rolled his eyes.

"Although," Draco looked at his best friend by the corner of his eyes, "I do thank you for your concern."

_Thank you for being here._


	9. Sirius Black

_1993 November 5th_

Draco Malfoy had to take a midnight flight after gathering the observed rumours of Harry Potter and his Deathly Adventures. As, there were no credentials but the barest hint of truth, he had confirmed several from a passing remark against Hermione Granger. But those didn't resolve the intentionally lax defence for Hogwarts or within, neither was the castle's sentient magic as vibrant, the headache behind caring for such matters was upon him.

So he stood on his broom, the same which his father had gifted, and trailed across the night sky bundled in Aunt Vivian's blue-knit cardigan he had stolen. He had surfed on the coast of Australia when his mother had first introduced him to the concept of summer pensions, and it had served him well.

He ran through the facts, and the rumours, beginning with a troll and Nicholas Flamel, a basilik and the Chamber of Secrets. He hadn't managed to read further into the Chamber of Secrets, but could dig further into Nicholas Flamel and the supposed intentions of bringing a Philosopher's Stone into Hogwarts. Especially when, last he read Luna's letter, the entire Slytherin House had feared taking a step into the Forbidden Forest.

"Unicorn blood, Philosopher's Stone, basilik, Chamber of Secrets." Draco repeated into his silver band.

"Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley," Luna's voice drifted back, "although Ron seems to be accosted by wrackspurts on most days."

His broom swayed, and his heart followed its lurch. Draco stared down at his broom with a frown.

"Are you runed?" Draco asked incredulously towards his broom, "but you're a prototype."

It was, surely, a prototype. His father hadn't talked in length, but he'd not seen the broom given in any market, nor were such features announced to be launched. Yet to see the latin engraved against the wood shining in silver as it hummed against his emotions, he could only guess how much it had been. Perhaps it wasn't a prototype.

He sat down on his broom, watching the rear bristles flutter against the night wind, the blue cardigan reaching over his hip. Draco was slightly touched, because his father seemed much approachable then what he had felt young, grasping onto his Aunt's robes and in his mother's arms, trying to place a braver face before the cold air which settled around his father's shoulders.

He spun, once, and repeated a string of words once more, before hanging up-side down by his knees over the handle.

"There's one connection," he spoke out loud, "but between believing those were intended examinations against an eleven-years old rather than the faulty protection of Hogwarts, the latter is more comforting. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Eleven, orphaned, presumed to be raised in the muggle world in less than savoury conditions. Albus Dumbledore, the wizard of his age."

Luna laughed airily.

"They're too fat." She agreed.

Hogwarts battered against his magic, the castle probing into his core, the atmosphere turning thicker, of an overbearing love. Hogwarts was worried, he found, the wind was curling against its walls faster than it had been and the cardigan flapped against his head. Draco smiled reassuringly.

"The castle's not too bad."

The moat rippled faster with the wind, the torches against the walls growing brighter, before everything dimmed.

Draco laughed again. The night was cold and the wind harsh, but against the moonlight and cold air running through his hair, hundreds of meters off ground, it was the only place he could laugh at will. The only place he could release his frustrations. He swayed on his broom, before curling back up and lying down, his back against one thin, polished wood.

"Time is on my side," he smiled at the stars, "not Sirius Black's."

"You sound like a raving lunatic." A stranger's voice shouted out.

Draco clutched his broom tighter, but that was all to his reaction. He turned to look at the high voice, and the first thing which registered in his mind were the bright ginger hairs.

"No, brother, he's a mindless soul."

"Oh, yes, an empty head."

"Full of snakes!"

The two smacked each other on the arm, knocked their elbows, and bumped their fists as if it were the signature of a fair resolution. Draco sat up on his broom, a foot on its bristle and a leg dangling below.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fred and George Weasley." He said easily.

The band on his finger hummed in distress.

It was midnight, and the weather was chilling he wouldn't have thought of anyone in the skies. But there they were, the pranksters of Hogwarts, overhearing his every word. Or, rather late to realise, having overheard every word. Draco clutched his broom tighter, and carefully held back his urge, of his wand at his disposal. The first wand he had gained on British soil.

"You're a right mystery," Fred started, "and what was that about Harry Potter?" George finished.

"It would be to your own benefit to forget anything you've heard." Draco reached for his wand.

"No," George started, "way." Fred finished.

"We're interested, you see, you must see," George began.

"With such a melancholic air we'd never imagined," Fred continued.

"You'd be a greater strategist than either of us!" George ended.

"An ally of all things evil!" The two chorused.

"You don't understand," Draco raised his hand, his wand trailed on the two, "there is no given option."

"Woah, hold on." George raised his hands in a surrender.

"If you obliviate us here, we're more than likely to fall. We're sharing an extended Cleansweep, it won't last longer than when you cast the spell."

"That is not my concern." Draco smiled.

The three glared at each other in a impasse, Draco's magic humming along his arm, to his hands, with but the words on his mouth to cover the wordless magic.

"Wait. Stop that." Fred intoned with a warning.

He, too, was reaching for the wand in the fold of his robes. Draco raised a brow and looked down upon them with a tilt of his chin, and summarised that George was the one with brains, and Fred with magic. George glanced at his twin brother, before meekly pulling out his wand, too, their shared Cleansweep 11 shivering against the wind.

"Look, Malfoy. There's two things we can tell from your ranting, yeah? And one is your obvious interest in Harry Potter. We'll tell you everything we know about what happened the last two years, since our Ron is Harry's best friend, we've heard as much from Harry Potter himself. A second-hand information is better than none at all. In return, you don't obliviate us. We don't know why a student from Durmstrang is so interested, but we won't question anything. Deal?" George lowered the arm with his wand, the other still suspended in surrender.

Draco Malfoy's grey eyes flickered over them, nearly black against the closing moonlight. They sat apart in silence, tense. Later, just as the darkness threatened Fred to whisper a spell, Draco's wand vanished, his magic settling into his body. He raised his empty hand towards George, the other towards Fred, as he slowly manipulated his broomstick closer.

"Deal. Repeat after me: I swear on the my magic, the dissolution of my core, to never repeat a work heard or spoken, through any retelling, implications, or variations to others, aside from myself, and two others who are similarly bound to this oath. So mote it be."

Draco chose not to call out their obvious interest in him, and his interest in their information. It was a fair, childish exchange.

Fred looked at George, and George looked at Fred, before both clasped onto Malfoy's hand.

"... So mote it be."

Draco smiled, and this time, it was disarming enough for George to lean into Fred's body, and Fred to lean forward into George's back. The thick magic around them lifted, and briefly, they wondered about the darkness which had descended on them since Malfoy was provoked. It was his magic which dried their endless cheer and nonsensical words. Suffocating, they had obliged, but now the moonlight shone.

"Thank you," Draco said brightly, "so glad we're friends."

George barked a laugh at the twisted cordiality.

"Of course, Draco. Glad to be one."

Draco smiled stiffly at the hum of his band.

"Meet at 11, the empty potions storage room. If you both can find it, that is."

Draco watched the two startle into curiosity at his provocation. Heading his broom towards the ground, he found Luna's still figure against the grass, waiting for him to descend. The foreboding feeling hadn't worn off even when Luna slid her arm into his, and led him towards the Great Hall.

"I was wondering if I should save you," Luna commented as she made him sit, "but everything sounded so clean."

She slid a pile of papers across the table in the early hours whence the sun began to rise, when the tables were clean and surface was void of crumbs. Draco could tasted the dread settling pass his throat as he had predicted and gagged on his bread.

"Information?" Draco coughed out.

Luna shook her head. He lifted the first page, and it was of a request for approval to enter the manor in Dover by a Mr. Hangling-Berton, first contact in Southern England, having moved down from Wales, to use the manor's library. Draco paled, lifting half of the stack, only to come across another request to cross Glisy, the rift between England and France by their private shore in upper Kingston.

"These are request forms. For England, and Wales, and a few rifts between France and Scotland. Including Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, Indigopal Street, and blocks five to eight on Burton Alley."

"Weren't these limited to Aunt Vivian?" Draco asked warily.

"No," Luna shook her head gently, "I used to draw the carrots, but you're here."

Draco stared at Luna, her soft voice causing doubt of his own ears. She hadn't been six when they first met, ten when he officially recognised her as a sister in all but blood, which, by his calculations, left four years of paperwork as he was thirteen. He faintly noted that her signature was a carrot. He rubbed his face.

"You heard the interaction with Fred and George Weasley," he said, changing the unbearable subject, "that requires a discussion later. In regards to their possible roles, that is."

Luna narrowed her eyes intently, unbecoming of her usual flighty appearance, with frigidity in her blue. Draco avoided her gaze and began stacking the papers into his bag.

"Choose wisely." She said.

Draco frowned. Luna hadn't meant a disagreement by her tone, but it could only imply he was to choose more in the future. Draco nodded and attempted not to think of a chaotic future. They spent the rest of their breakfast in silence, the morning sunlight just dawning on them, half to seven. The Great Hall was empty as were their required personal space for a few minutes longer, before he heard the first voices echo off the walls.

Sighing, he stood, turned, and promptly knocked another student over.

"Oh, excuse me," Draco mustered his exceeding politeness for the second time that morning, "are you alright?"

A Gryffindor was tangled in his robes, face wrapped in robes and closed off with a tie. He looked like a present; Draco's mouth twitched trying to hold back his laughter. He held him by both hands and pulled him up, loosening the tie wrapped around his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." A muffled voice croaked out underneath his robes.

"Very well."

Draco reached for a second apple, nodding discreetly towards Luna before leaving. He wouldn't have helped further considering the amount of people beginning to trickle in.

...

Draco didn't hold the urgency to approach Sirius Black until the day Harry Potter fell from the sky.

As young as he was, the adults around him hadn't neglected his love for action, but by the time he had gained his bearings in the Slytherin House the Quidditch team had already been composed. All he could do was wait, and watch, and be rather bored of the lack of techniques and safety the Hogwarts Quidditch team presented.

He was still bored, in fact, when the Boy-Who-Lived fell from the sky, until he felt a tiny point of magic no less than the sound of threading through a needle move rapidly apart the field. Draco stood abruptly, and the craning of his neck towards an entirely different direction was masked by the crowd of others who had already launched to their feet, fooling everyone except Blaise. Blaise, who navigated him through the British pureblood customs, who led him through Slytherin's ranks. Whose dark brown eyes never missed a detail.

"There was a dog down there. Black, larger than average, left." Blaise said.

His directions were spoken with a questioning gaze.

"Thanks."

He tore through the stands, opposite the surging crowd's allure to Harry Potter's collapsed form, and in a grit of annoyance, drew his hands forwards to clear a path before remembering his wand. Ceasing his attempt entirely, he shoved his path open.

An animagus, he reminded himself, that Sirius Black. How Luna came to the immediate connection between a dog and a human was lost on him, as it could have been any stray dog or ministry issued watch hounds, but it seemed more feasible the more he thought. He pushed another girl to the ground. It explained the dementors on the train, as a dog could cover more ground than a frail human. He elbowed a fat boy aside.

Bursting out of the crowds by the furthest stand south, he snarled at the fair distance of muddied grass. Reluctantly, he ran.

Draco could hear the faint traces of thunder, superficial in all but the sound which rang through the air. He could hear the skies thundering in the air, and in his ears, which should have caused even more confusion had the sky suddenly cleared. Dumbledore had some wits left in him, he thought, as he traced the sound to the middle of Hogwart's grounds.

He stopped in front of the Whomping Willow, which was twisting around a broom.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the calm sound of thunder drifting rapidly away from the grounds, towards Hogsmeade, if he could chance a guess. It stopped south-west of what he imagined was Knockturn Alley, and settled briefly before moving further across town. By the time he couldn't hear the traces of thunder any longer, Draco sighed in resignation. Magic, at least, proved its status as an animagus.

"Draco?" Luna's voice drifted through, "a broom is heading your way."

"I'm moving. You were right, by the way. Animagus. But don't blame my deliberation, I'm still reserving any judgements."

He walked into the common room and came under the fire of eyes.

"So tell me," Pansy said as she lifted her nails to examine the pink stripes, "why were you fixated on Blaise's observance of a dog?"

Draco glanced at Blaise, only to find him crafting a similar vibe of sly curiosity.

"Considering how the dog was the only abnormality on the field, aside from the dementors, it would be disappointing for neither to be unrelated. Unfortunately, personal disappointment came from the headmaster rather than the dog."

The Slytherin's common room was blocked by grey walls on all sides. Had he not seen a poorer demonstration of a dungeon in his own mansion, he would have considered the rooms to be the holding cells of prisoners. From what he was told, previous generations of Slytherins improved their rooms with their own budget, from furniture to decorations, including the Glub-lights above and silver rug below.

Yurika Haneda rolled her eyes, stretched between the fainting couch and the second couch.

"You should know better by now," she clipped, "we don't use extravagant words on each other. You ran after a dog in the middle of a field of dementors and a knocked out Harry Potter. It hasn't been a week since we had to sleep in the Great Hall because of Sirius Black's attack on the Fat Lady, since the dementors closed in on school perimeters."

"It's a dog," Draco smiled, "your imagination is as astounding as ever."

"You seem to forget we're together most hours, Draco. You sudden attachment to silver, with that band on your finger, is as obnoxious as Umbridge's blatant dislike for weres. Your dislike for accessories are as obvious as Lupin's illegal profession."

"By Merlin's beard, Blaise, did you rope the entire house into this?" Draco asked.

"We aren't incompetent, darling. We've accosted Blaise since you started disappearing for hours in the evening after the Fat Lady got scratched. Your mother's a Black, you see, and Sirius Black is a Black." Pansy said slowly, as though Draco was a child.

Marcus walked in, and made to collapse on the couch. Yurika retracted her feet before it was squashed.

"What's the deal?"

"We're talking about how Draco's a suspect of Sirius Black's appearance in Hogwarts, Marcus." Yurika supplied.

"We were talking about a dog." Draco grumbled.

"Right, what's up with that?"

"For all we know," Pansy continued, "Draco's mother told him to work with Sirius Black, her cousin, to allow him access into Hogwarts. The dog's either Draco's pet, or Sirius Black' pet, who carries messages because owls can be traced. They're planning to kill Harry Potter."

"By all means, Pansy, think whatever you want. There can be nothing held against me with no evidence, and nothing witnessed. The moment this escapes us Slytherins, it will be your head on the line, not mine."

Pansy scowled. The unspoken rule amongst Slytherins was the necessity of their own secrets remaining within the house. The house was similar to Durmstrang's social environment in many ways, aside from the continuous gossip and intrusion on one's personal affairs, but the conjecture Pansy left open was to be stayed buried.

"The business with Sirius Black is of my own. Besides, the relationship between my mother and Sirius Black is a common misunderstanding. If anyone finds such little information a tedious task to find, perhaps returning a grade would be a better fit than society."

The four involved fell silent, placed around the sofas, while the other ten around the common room's walls listened in without a pause to their low chatter.

"Okay, okay," Marcus intervened, "here's something else. Harry Potter's broom was shattered, apparently, broken clean into pieces. He's probably going to run bench, unless he gets himself a better one."

Draco blinked.

"How unfortunate," he said, recalling the twigs in the Whomping Willow, "but you've interrupted me. It would be an honour to share a few theories. A little knowledge goes a far way, and the amount of rumours wouldn't shed enough light on how Sirius Black is related to Harry Potter, unfortunately. By the way, have you ever considered Peter Pettigrew's survival?"

...

Pansy Parkinson seemed to have forgotten being insulted. She leaned forward with slight awe in her eyes.

"You're suggesting the entire Sirius Black case was set up?"

"It's one of the few beliefs of those who stand on his side, yes."

The two had moved to the stairs, Blaise laid down across their backs. Yurika remained by the fireplace that was rarely used a distance away, and Marcus had long left after a reminder to Quidditch tryouts for Draco.

"It's interesting," Blaise dragged out, "how you manage to know things we simply overlook, capitalise on it, and pull a lead of injustice or major happening out of such a minor thread."

Draco glared at Blaise.

They had an unspoken truce, as observant as Blaise was, for Draco to hold his silence yet reveal as what would be minimal to a cause, and for Blaise to not question the source of Draco's knowledge. Although it was highly probably that Blaise had gleaned much more from Draco's constant disappearances, simply 'erased from existence' at times, he didn't confirm, and Blaise had not asked.

Considering Pansy was by his side, Draco understood Blaise's constant inclusion of Pansy Parkinson as a way of offering a new friendship between himself and the girl. Blaise was attached to his childhood friend, and merging one friend to another seemed to be his purpose of Pansy Parkinson's continuous presence.

Tolerating what could be the first time Blaise pressed a matter on him, he hadn't complained.

"Then why don't we all head down this evening, a sneak down to Hogsmeade. You've said the last traces of Sirius Black's magic ended in that direction, so in order to prove your claims wrong, Draco, a nice, brief outing would do." Pansy dared with a satisfied sniff.

"He smelled of a warm humid air," Draco agreed.

"Slightly of burnt twigs." Blaise added.

"Thunder." Draco concluded.

"Very well. We wouldn't be there unless we're caught, yes? Each to our own, until we see the first shop in Hogsmeade, by the Owl Post Office."

And so it was, a meeting to be held at the unspoken hour of midnight. Although, with the promise he had made, Draco took a detour and arrived in the empty potions classroom the moment eleven struck, and greeted the twins with a fright.

Uncle Jason had once introduced him to the motions of dropping from heights. There was a limit, he had also advised, but a reasonable way of falling from better heights. Then he had led him through a jump against the wall, a run on narrow ledges, and soon, Draco had joined the junior parkour group of France's Charles de Gaulle. So hanging upside-down the nearest ledge, his ankles hooked and his fingers clutched, Draco jumped down before the twins' faces and enjoyed their shrieks.

"Good evening." He said.

"Merlin's beard!"

"Morgana's," George slapped a hand over Fred's eye.

"Tits, yes, very mature. We're heading to the Shrieking Shack. Any explanation," Draco smiled, "would have to be done on the way, including the details of your roles, and the technicalities of our exchange."

"I think I just realised something Fred," George whispered loudly, "I don't think that smile is a smile."

"Oh, yes, George. Not a smile at all."

The smile wiped off his mouth instantly, Draco turned on his heels uncaring of the twins interests, and headed towards Hogwart's kitchen.

"How did you know where the kitchens were?" The twins asked.

Draco didn't reply, but walked through the elf-less kitchens with his head held high. By reaching the end, he turned to the nearest cellar of assorted wines, and upon reaching the end of the cellar, bent down to loosen several bricks near the corner.

Fred and George Weasley watched the young Malfoy before them, who had threatened their lives not a day ago, reach for his wand and tap the new set of bricks which appeared. The castle walls were layered, and they didn't see the point of taking one set of bricks away. But the castle heaved.

It was like a huge, dormant lion letting a light gasp, a dragon wheezing fire in the midst of its nap, an impregnable fortress falling silent for a moment before the war cry. But they felt it, something they'd never felt, before the outer bricks turned and swayed in its place rearranging themselves not unlike the wall behind Leaky Cauldron. Gaping, they were unable to voice the small hush of magic even as a red, little door the height of an elf appeared before them.

"Did you feel that?" George asked his brother.

"Yes." Fred replied.

"You felt the castle giving permission?" Draco asked sharply.

"Giving permission?"

"It was more of a sigh."

"A breath of air."

"A gust of wind."

"Your family renounced the hereditary magic," Draco snapped before they continued any further, "you shouldn't be able to feel sentient magic, at all."

The twins looked at each other. Erlnier, for a moment, wondered whether they were going to shrug it off, like many others he had witnessed do in Hogwarts. Aside from the handful in Slytherin who were well attuned, and another which could grasp vague shifts in magic, there were none which seemed to care about the castle's moans against every student harmed, nor its protectiveness over children of all ages. But they turned to him once more with curiosity in their eyes, as one pulled out a piece of weathered parchment.

"We'll show you something really nice if you explain to us what that was all about." The redhead said as he shook it in Draco's face.

Draco eyed the parchment suspiciously before nodding once. There wasn't an exclusive ban on the matter, although what Hogwarts seemed to call those pure-blooded seemed to wish it an exclusivity for themselves. He lowered himself to the small red door and opened the knob, before crawling through. The frame was tight against his shoulders and hip, but he otherwise passed with less fanfare than the pulling and shoving of the twins.

"Those you call muggles are actually descendants of wizards and witches who've long abandoned the Wizarding community a millennia past. We were born gifted, and there were those who gave up the gift, ripping the magic out of themselves before it could take hold. Hence, the division of common-folk and magic. So when a lineage of those you call muggles comes into contact with magic once more, they are able to control it, and feel the effects of intentional magic such as spells and curses, but are unable to feel sentient magic. 

Considering the fact that your family gave up such a lineage some generations ago, it's surprising to see your reactions against sentient magic, when all you should be feeling is its purpose. Do you understand how rare a case you might be, when your existences are already so rare within the magical community as twins?"

Silence passed between the trio as they passed the first sights of Hogwart's walls, far to the left they could only see the glimpses of its grey.

"How do we know what you're telling is the truth?" Fred Weasley asked.

"What?" Draco asked in return, "Surely you must have read _The Lineages and Hereditary of Wizard-kind_? Or the children's edition of _Secrets Passed On_?"

"We've no idea." The twins chorused.

"_The Pure-Blood's Etiquettes, Edition 5, Volume 3, Revised_?"

"No. Mum would give us a good whooping for that one. It's banned." Fred snickered as he ribbed his twin.

"Fuck," Draco whispered to himself, "what has the British Ministry come to?"


	10. Pansy Parkinson

"Alright," Fred Weasley said minutes into their walk, "let's assume you are right. About how us Weasley's shouldn't have been able to feel that, that thing we felt. Why's it so important, then, that we can?"

Draco wished he could abandon all pretence and haul the twins by their necks in frustration of their ignorance, but he couldn't fault accidental ignorance, as they had been seeing what had made them so.

"It means, Weasleys, that your family still has a responsibility towards guarding the tear between wards."

"What?" They chorused.

"The tear between wards, which keeps our worlds separate and unseen to those who aren't of magic."

"Wards?" George repeated.

Draco stared at them, and realised the consequences of the British Ministry of Magic's suppression on society was rather dire.

"There are wards," he began slowly, "which keeps our worlds apart from muggles, connects our worlds together, and protects our society from being seen. All those who are able to feel magic has been guarding the points of division passed from generation to generation, so that if there are any changes, immediate response can be given. It is the reason why those you call pure-bloods dislike the muggles so, as their passing to this world weakens the wards with every entry."

The twins looked surprised, offering no reassurance to Draco who had rather hoped they had once heard a similar spin. Draco marched ahead, turning past another alley.

"Malfoy manor stands on a point of dissent. Hogwarts' grounds are protected by points of headstones. Durmstrang is protected by a congregation of weather. But they're all intertwined, to cover the society and people which lie between. Each and every sentient building of a magical society has a part to play in the concealment, which used to involve your house, until it was corrupted entirely by intent. You could say, in fact, that your house would be the easiest to enter even with wards in place by your own hands, by wizards and muggles alike. Weasleys have long lost the qualifications of pure-blood rituals."

Draco picked out the map from their sides, and turned it by his hand. The twins didn't protest, but were surprised when Draco visibly lost all curiosity after a single tap of his wand against the parchment.

"So, muggles. They weaken the wards?" George asked, unwilling to hear Draco's disappointment.

"Muggles are created by the dilution of magic passed by an ancestor who once married another who'd long given up magic. In short, a witch decide to marry someone without magic, and their child married another muggle, and another, until magic diluted and appeared explosively under rare conditions generations later. Unfortunately, the increase of muggles meant the increase of less-knowns, and the less-knowns, largely known as squibs, are either left unattended in the muggle world or magical society. And in the span of growth left unattended, their magic becomes something vastly different from those who grew in protection of the wards, which instead disrupts the flow of magic between wards every time they enter any point of entry."

"I think I get it," George said, "you're trying to say magic's more familiar with pure-bloods, aren't you? That's why your family, and all of them others, are saying stuff like mud-bloods."

"No," a voice snorted behind them, "that's just the trend."

Startled, the twins whirled in their place. Draco forged on ahead.

Pansy Parkinson eyed them firmly with crossed arms. An unspoken exchange lasted between them, until Pansy rolled her eyes and uncrossed her arms, only to hike up her skirt.

"It feels as though my clothes are gathering more bathwater the further you walk. There's something down there, gingers, and Draco Malfoy has failed to clue us in."

"Us?" The twins echoed.

"We've been following you since the Owl Post." Blaise sighed tiredly from the shadows.

"Draco's informative session's missing something much more important," Pansy continued, as though they hadn't disrupted the conversation at all, "our culture's been dying since Albus Dumbledore defeated Grindelward, effectively throwing out past traditions under the name of reformation. Since then, the entry and exit of muggles have been pried open, coming through passages that had been sealed due to the wards' instability not a century past. Essentially, the term 'mudblood' was used to mock those who were unable to live up to their name as witches or wizards. Now, it's to humiliate those who've weaken our wards. Who knows, we may be calling them 'high-bloods' the next decade."

"Oh, no, what a thing to imagine." Blaise flat-lined.

"So Sirius Black is an animagus," Pansy suddenly interrupted, "this is his magic."

At the turn of conversation, Draco honed his magic to a concentrated point, and heard the rolling thunder in his ears once more. Magic had always settled around those who knew like nature, but to pinpoint one was like narrowing past the sound of rustling leaves and humming bees, until the necessary sound was heard most out of place. To him, it was the low rumble of thunder.

Blaise observed the twins' pallor which turned whiter by the second.

"There was no implication that he was not." Draco said, unaffected by Pansy's accusing glare.

"You've left us to think the dog was yours. Perhaps a warning of danger would have sufficed before we left the protection of Hogwarts?"

"Protection? You must have forgotten that it was Hogwarts' own protection which allowed Black within a common room."

Blaise waved their conversation away.

"She's not talking about that, Draco. Sirius Black has been in Azkaban for nearly a decade."

"We are witches and wizards," Draco continued, "with wands. Fred and George Weasley were brought here with a purpose."

Then did the realisation come, as the twins were known for many things, amongst which were strange spells of all sorts which, in part, were made by themselves of ridiculous words far from tradition of strung latin. Pansy tilted her head, conceding that Draco Malfoy had thought the issue through. It also meant that the trio of Draco, Blaise, and Pansy had finally been established much like Hogwarts' famed three, and Draco's gain of an influential member within his social circle which remained according to his tastes, rather small and of Quidditch members.

"We'll follow this disgusting imagination against my skin, then." Pansy concluded, and her words held more weight than most.

So they approached the Shrieking Shack, atop a grassy hill.

...

The Shrieking Shack had no entry from the path in Hogsmeade. That wasn't to say there had been none, as it was abandoned for a purpose and reason suitable to the past owner's cause. The Shack had once been a home to some and shelter to another, before it was abandoned, then accused of being haunted. The accusations however, were strictly from 'muggles' who believed in evil, intrusive ghosts, forgoing their past witnessing of Nearly-Headless Nick. To the purebloods of the British Wizarding World the rumours were so purely muggle, but to discredit those rumours were an effort none was willing to take.

So the Shack became the Shrieking Shack because, once again, those in the know failed to educate the blind.

"There was an entrance past the right reeds once, centuries ago. It was blocked by Albus Dumbledore, in his advice to the Wizengamot, under clauses of instability. Ridiculous, considering how long it stood, but the only reason of sense the Wizengamot believes."

Draco silently agreed with Blaise's heavy implications.

"Your map only reflects Hogwarts' grounds?" He asked the twins.

"Unfortunately." They whispered back together.

Draco pulled out a piece of pure white paper.

"What is that?" Pansy asked.

"Those les-autres have produced a thing called printers, Pansy. A suitable paper for those printers are these, not parchments."

"You've been to the muggles'?"

"To read a person's death without the procedures of analysing a wand."

"They know such things?"

"Perhaps this conversation should continue later," Blaise interceded, "to get that map to work."

Draco spread the map, which was larger than a side of the Shack. It had to be flung to the floor, and despite the five cluttering around the white sheet which glowed under the moon, there was still spaces to fill. With a single tap, the surface rippled, until the entire Shrieking Shack and its hill was reflected on the map, with their names, and two more.

"Sirius Black." Blaise read sourly.

The twins were taken to a world of their own, lost in the map's interlocking charms and spells, but Pansy simply pointed to a corner with the top of her foot.

"It says, Blaise, Sirius Black a.k.a. Padfoot. Does this reflect nicknames?"

"Yes, unfortunately. A mis-product of what we intended, which was their date of birth."

Draco and Blaise exchanged a gaze of disappointment, before turning back to the map.

"No, no, that doesn't matter. What matters is how you did this." George exclaimed.

Pansy took one look at the twins' curious faces, before explaining.

"It's like one of those ancestral tapestry, but far minimised and based on reflective locations, than blood."

"Quite. But analysis magic only goes so far, and we've been wholly intending to create their names and dates of births, but with the added calculations of what les-autres would have used. Well, it didn't quite turn out to our liking."

Blaise moved his feet as though he was tempted to trample the white paper, but abstained, and placed it back down. Pansy and the twins were reminded, once again, that it had not only been Draco who had transferred from Durmstrang but Blaise Zabini, too.

"Padfoot is the maker of this map," Fred interrupted, " this one, the one we've been using to find all of Hogwart's secret passages. There's other names, like Moony, and Wormtail."

"You've had the map for long, and didn't realise it was of Sirius Black's?" Pansy asked incredulously.

"Well, it wasn't as if we could grab a teacher and ask."

"Of course you could. Break into their private rooms, and read their diaries. What's so hard?"

The twins turned to stare at Pansy with a horrified expression, but the Slytherins simply exchanged amused expressions, as Pansy's unending source of gossip had finally been explained, through her own mouth which she'd claimed to never speak. It was her pride and joy to speak of many, many things, but to keep all sources close to her heart, which Draco considered was a fine making of the second coming of a much loose-lipped Miss Catherine.

"So before we all charge up there," Fred started.

"We will not. You, twins, will be remaining here underfoot, while Draco and Blaise searches around. I will remain outside the shack setting wards to keep all animals within. If we are all to come across a lethal wound, you, twins, shall alert the staff as we remain outside the wards. There's a higher chance we'd not come across him anyways, as he's long separated himself from his family's hereditary magic. A misfortune to him, and a grand excuse for ourselves."

"Before we charge up there, tell us why we're going after Sirius Black."

Draco and Blaise turned to Pansy, as she had been the one to propose such an adventure, and by no means had Draco roused her interest in hindsight besides speaking an assumption.

"Well, we would like to talk to him. Draco, here, has brought us to think he's innocent. A crime made to be his, not committed. He obviously thought of going after Black alone," Pansy glanced at him in mock, "but I have managed to bring all to otherwise. If I had known he thought of bringing you two, I would have left him be."

So the twins were stayed, and the trio of Slytherins began to climb the hill. They did not realise, but would come to know the twins had discussed the abnormalities of Slytherins as Sirius Black hunted, and had concluded Slytherins weren't abnormal at all, but simply conforming of traditions. They had been raised as such, and were taught with more political reason than any other magical families, which was why their ambition was more profound than others.

Draco was not the first to be attacked.

He and Blaise had separated, leaving Pansy alone by the front wall facing the twins who were but a figure's distance away, both agreed to meet on the other end, in Blaise's consideration of Draco's bid for personal time with Sirius Black.

Draco had agreed to Pansy's enthusiasm on the grounds of establishing a rather strong beginning, Blaise knew, as he had seen him do the same in Durmstrang where he'd risked his own work for the benefit of others, only to cost them the same favor days, or years down the friendship. It was one of Draco's unforgiving traits Blaise experienced by his simultaneous transfer to Hogwarts.

Draco looked once down at the scratched surface of the ground, before he was dragged to the ground by his mouth and neck. 

He fumbled, his knife was in his trunk and his wand was in his pocket.

"Who are you, and why are you here?"

The voice was rough, unused for long and grating to his ears. He couldn't talk from the foul hand across his mouth, and he indicated as much by biting a small chunk of his skin. There was a soft curse, and it wasn't a hand which grabbed him by his face any longer, but wet fangs which dragged him by his clothes.

"Have you hurt my friends?" Draco asked as he was dragged, rather nonchalantly for his position.

And it had to be, as their scuffle hadn't been small by any means, and the house could only separate them so far. He was taken underneath a hole under the house's loose rocks, dragged by his cuff through a tunnel none would have been able to cross but by lying down, and was released in a room too dim.

The room was bleak. It had crumbling grey wallpapers which turned into dust with his single collapse against a surface, and a table-set. It was what his Aunt would have been delighted to have a hand in its remaking, something Uncle Jason would have remained outside for, awaiting the change of scenery. The fire crackled in the hearth, warm against the night, and Sirius Black loomed over him with the fire behind him, his eyes orange and ablaze.

"I can kill you." He said.

"My mother told me otherwise. She spoke highly of your kindness, but foolish actions. You were kind to those younger than you, but deemed those representative of your family's traditions lower. Biased against the darker side of society, but favorable to those who were of better conditions."

Their eyes met, insanity against clarity.

"You're Narcissa's son."

It was a conclusion, unanswerable. Draco looked down at his torn clothes, and scratched skin, and wondered, briefly, in anger. He held his breath, calmed to a fault of occlumency.

"Do you know anything of Regulus Black?"'

...

Witnesses were troubled souls, seen and spoken to all but of themselves. Lucius Malfoy's dark mark was nothing but a blemish when he had seen it manifest before his eyes, a dark outline of a skull and snake. The sun had been blazing, unlike Drumstrang's usual coldness, no wind or cooler tones in sight. Weather had pushed Draco to his home, his Aunt unavailable and his Uncle gone to who-knows-where, but in his French home had been his father, who had similarly come in flee of Britain's summer rain.

At an age where he long reached a knowledge higher than most, where he found solace in Clair and attachments to his mother, Erlnier had taken a glance before realising, in all of his conversations with the Fawleys, never had they once administered the fact He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was dead. Instead they have spoken as though He was alive.

Draco, as Lucius' son, was concerned, but Erlnier whispered in the back of his mind of the dangers first and foremost, overriding his emotions.

"There is no reason in killing," Aunt Vivian had said, "only that one has died and one has killed. Killing is a fact, a reality, a certainty that cannot be returned. If I must endow one with a certificate of killing it would be our most recent Dark Lord who has lost all sense."

There was no reason not to kill his parents, if he were to return.

"That's what you said," Erlnier protested, "and there the future's too vague. Preparation never hurts, something learnt far beyond my age, there is no reason for you to protest, you must have something to share, to protect."

His words had come jumbled, a crisis drawn to clarity in his eyes.

"If you mean to say you need a lead, I will give you one. But I will also request something as equal, Erlnier, for I cannot feed you everything by my hand. One day, you will have to find things without a guide, an indication. So my last help to you begins with this: Ask those closest to you, find connections unbreakable for them, and ask, whenever with whatever you need."

His mother had proposed two names, and had told him the history of both.

_Sirius, and Regulus Black._

Sirius Black was now before him, old, battered, tainted, but with the unmistakeable haughtiness to his eyes which could only be gained by better households.

"Regulus? Why are you asking about Regulus?"

"To protect my family. To have a string ready in my hands for pulling, if things come to worse."

Sirius Black rolled his eyes.

"That complicated speech is something Malfoy's taught you, isn't it?"

"No," Draco spoke gently, "there is no affiliation of magic between the Malfoy's inheritance and myself, although it is reachable at any moment."

"But you're using raw magic," Sirius Black narrowed his eyes, "of someone else's then? I would have never thought of Lucius Malfoy allowing his only child to be another's property."

"Do you know anything of Regulus Black?"

"I saw you that day. Chasing me down across Hogwarts, as though you were following something rather than having seen me. I was wondering who you were, and it turns out you're Narcissa's son? Do you see how funny it is, to be chased by none but Narcissa's son while Harry, poor Harry's fallen from the sky?"

"Anything of Harry Potter, is available for your ears. You'll have to tell me anything you know of Regulus Black first, however, before the tales of Harry Potter's famous adventures are regaled."

A stilted answer replied equally, Sirius Black tilted his head.

"I think I know more than you," he answered with wider smile, "when my friends are in Hogwarts, closer to Harry than you expect."

"You think of me as your enemy. Harry Potter's enemy," Draco frowned, "but Durmstrang had been with the better third of my life. Hogwarts is new, something visibly queer, as much as Harry Potter's fame is to my ears. All that can be relayed are rumours heard from everyone, and not of personal opinion."

"And you're any better?" He asked sarcastically.

"No. It's only a proposal, of equivalent confirmations."

"I'll hear you out alright," Black scoffed, "and then, maybe, I'll tell you something about my cousin."

"Please."

"No. Not now. You first."

Draco bit back his tongue.

"There are no accusations of your ill intentions here. But as much as Dumbledore may claim to know, he would never understand the mind of someone who has lived in Azkaban, the lengths you are willing to go to regain the little semblance of family once formed through brotherhood and betrayed. He considered and took your situation into account, yes, and would cover your tracks willingly. But he will not understand the lengths you'd go for Harry Potter. No-one, in fact. I can only assume, and have assumed, which brings me here."

"I know your kind," Sirius snarled, interrupting, "you think you know everything, do you? Bad-mouthing Dumbledore at every turn-"

"So tell me all you know of Regulus Black, because I have been told he went missing upon fleeing from Voldemort and was last seen in confidence of Voldemort's fall. I need what he had, because if my family comes to ruins, and His wand is pointed in my mother's face, I would be the last to stand between the Boy-Who-Lived, the Ministry, and Voldemort, should it mean my own death!"

His shout rang in silence.

Sirius Black looked at him.

They both hadn't realised what being a Malfoy meant until then, not even Draco himself until it was put into words. And it was true, undeniably true.

Draco sighed, mad at himself most for losing his composure, and ran his thin fingers through his muddied, near-white hair which had grown past his ears. Strands came out broken, stuck to his nails, and he only sighed once more, and counted to ten.

"I don't need you to tell me about Harry." Sirius Black said. "But teach me how the laws have changed, and I'll give you access to the Black's house. Regulus' room is under preservation, so you'd learn more about him there, than anywhere else. I don't have much information on what he had been doing before he went missing, unfortunately, but what you've said is true. He did say he would bring about Voldemort's downfall."

"You need the law on your side to free yourself. With Umbridge at the forefront of legislation on anti-animagus and anti-were policies, you'll find it hard to do so. But yes, I'll grant you the portion of political connections." Draco said with his eyes closed.

"For what it's worth," Sirius Black said, "I'm sorry about the mess you're in."

"It's worth nothing." Draco answered.

They remained in silence for a while, before Draco opened his eyes.

"How hard did you hit them?"

Sirius Black laughed.

...

In the end, George Weasley carried Blaise, and Fred Weasley carried Pansy. They were fortunately clean aside from the sleeping spell which hadn't been removed, and Draco wasn't willing to remove until they reached Hogwarts. The twins yawned every few steps ahead, which allowed Draco to lead the way and whisper into his ring.

"I secured Regulus Black's room," he spoke to Luna, "Black's given me the address."

"Congratualtions, Draco." Luna yawned.

"I went mad from realising what position I was in. I've only just realised my Aunt Vivian pitied me so. Luna, it's... Society's not on my side. The future's not on my side. It's..."

"Sirius must have transferred his Wrackspurts to you, Draco," Luna yawned once more, "it's a bit foggy over there, but the sun's coming."

"Right. Good night, Luna."

"Good night, brother of mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is a WIP (Work in Progress) that will have its first to recent chapters updated (because I'm reading it over), again and again!


	11. Kreacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wondered what a writer's block was before, but I know it now. The past two chapters were hard to write :(

Draco looked at the twins across his bed with a lack of words. They weren't unwelcome, per se, but they were more than eager to explore the Slytherin's rooms so late at night when the lake made everything darker save the strand of filtered moonlight. And they were deserving of it when they've carried Blaise and Pansy to their rooms, Pansy shaken awake before the girl's common room, but seeing two ginger, distinctly tall teenagers hanging over the ends of his bed was awkward. 

Rather, he had to leave with the information Sirius Black had given, and had no time when midnight was a quarter away.

"Do you truly plan to sleep here?" He asked.

"Think about it," George said to Fred in a complete dismissal of Draco's groan, "think of how all those ickle Slytherins would scream when they find us naked in Draco's bed!"

"Naked?" Draco echoed, slightly annoyed.

"Ooh, George, that's a brilliant idea. But there has to be something more to raise there dour, evil little spirits."

"Glitter?"

"No, well, yes, but do you see what I see on every surface of their beds?"

"Fred, you've read my mind."

Draco watched them with a twisted frown, and rapped on the nearest surface.

"Excuse me, then, since you'd best be doing this without a witness."

His voice went, again, unheard between furious whispering.

...

In the end, he saw to the twins tucked underneath blankets before sneaking out of the castle once more.

Draco Malfoy didn't have time beyond his school activities, and duties as the unspoken representative for exchange-students, to drown himself between shelves and shelves of books and books. He didn't, reasonably due to bed at a time all logical thirteen-years-olds were due, but Ernier Fawley who'd once lived through being a Pavilion representative, Quidditch chaser, guide of all lost students of Durmstrang, and Aunt Vivian's training to Uncle Jason's violation of knowledge, knew best to work on four hours of sleep at large.

There had been a time when he, loaded with Miss Catherine's mind chaos of the night, went to class too tired to think by his mind and, ultimately, surprised the Professor by responding to questions far out of his league. That was when he'd developed the four-hour policy.

With an hour and quarter to spare, he called for help in a secluded corner of Knockturn Alley.

"Tea?"

His voice rang down the damp, empty streets where no-one rested, the moon still hovering to his left. The lights were dim. The fog was thick.

"Tea? Are you too busy?"

There was a resounding clap, with a little whirl for additional effects as Tea was as dramatic as Aunt Vivian, and out popped Tea in her newly blue robes.

"Young Mister Malfoy." Tea spoke, and crossed her feet into a perfect bow.

Sometimes, although rarely, did Erlnier wonder if Aunt Vivian took too far a delight in reforming something to her tastes, be it human or object.

"There are no need for formal greetings with me, Tea."

Tea blinked at him.

"Young Miss Vivian never told me how to greet anyone, Young Mister Malfoy. Master Olse simply told me to respect his wife's blindness, so I tend to make such entrances out of habit. I'll try to remember your preference, Mister Malfoy, if you need."

Erlnier had never seen an elf talk as well as Tea once in the British domain. The French elves spoke halting French, the Durmstrang elves tended not to speak at all but impressive facial haughtiness, and the British elves were distinctly British. Uncle Jason was fond of calling Tea his grandmother, as she called everyone Young.

"Could you take me to 12 Grimmauld Place and back?"

"The Black's House?" Tea asked in surprise, "whatever for?"

But she'd grabbed his hand and twisted him away with far more stealth than when she'd first arrived, before he could reply.

...

_1993 December 1st_

Midnight had passed a second after he arrived on the front steps of 12 Grimmauld Place. Tea had left the moment his feet touched the ground, leaving his hand grasping at the doorknob instead of her winkled, bony hands.

He stared blankly at the tongue he'd wrapped his hand in, the tongue of an elf, whose head was molded into a door knob. A frozen, true tongue wasn't the most he'd seen, but it was unpleasant all the same.

When he pushed, the door gave way. There were no webs or dust by the front entrance, which indicated Sirius Black's arrival of past, and such a trace lasted until the first door to his right upon entering, a guest room by the entrance for easier leave. The rug beneath his feet was threads of pure gold, and the decorations lining the dark hall pure silver, he couldn't measure the value of the house.

A month of integration, another two months of social establishment, and the prior month of investigation had led him to this. This gaudy-looking, sorely traditional house reeking of hereditary magic that had turned stagnant, unused and simply gathered, like coins sitting for centuries underground until it turned to rust. The problem with hereditary magic was that it had to be used, to thrum between one's will and left to circulate like air, else it turned to this soiled, disfigured thing which was unusable.

A silent pop was all there was before he was alerted to another's presence.

"Intruder! Intruder, intruder, intruder!"

Startled, Erlnier stumbled. House elves weren't of hereditary magic, but the few which had been in service for centuries, like Tea, had no distinct magic of ownership but became one with the hereditary magic they've been in most contact with. So the elf, younger than Tea but older than most, had been unrecognisable to Erlnier's ears, less his magic, when surrounded by the Blacks' magic in the Black's house. Much like being stranded in Hogwarts, Erlnier thought negatively of the entire situation.

To see its finger wagging at him, a broom held threateningly in its other hand as if to spark magic on a moment's notice was instead something he could handle, he twisted his mouth into a smile. Humans were easier to deal with.

"I could release you from service."

Erlnier couldn't, not truly. The house hadn't accepted him, and neither had he. It was lightly warded, but not at all to a wizard's eyes, and the only reason which kept the house from knocking him back on its front steps was Sirius Black' verbal agreement. House elves were a different matter which relied on hereditary magic rather than the house's will, but as someone who carried three hereditary magic with two severely unused, he had less a say.

"Miss Narcissa is Mrs. Malfoy now," the elf said in disdain, "she is proper, most well done in hand. But you are no Black. You are no Malfoy. You are intruder, mixed thing which should not grace this house!"

"And I would have expected better from an elf of the House of Black to greet someone of mine House's and own." Erlnier hissed.

The elf hissed back, hatred written across its every line, before tugging back an ear and growling at the floor.

"Kreacher has no guest. Kreacher has no welcome. Mixed, strange guest is not welcomed, not at all."

"I don't care. Bring me to the room of Regulus Black."

Kreacher hesitated. In fact, he seemed as though he wouldn't do at all.

"I am looking for ways to protect myself against Voldemort."

Kreacher disappeared, the last seen glare of refusal clear in his eyes.

"Oh, fuck this," Erlnier rolled his eyes, "I've had too much honesty for the year."

Slowly, carefully, he unrolled his magic. It came out of him like a tide, which with his blood of Black was harder to control but easier to roam, and the house groaned its path open. The doors rattled open, and some portraits began to mutter awake. Blacks were thunder to his ears, with a handful of rain but nothing more, a slow rumble in the distance with no lightning. This was the canvas of which the Black children grew from, free to add their flair of more rain and wind.

He peered through every door, and checked its frames first and foremost. All manors and houses were bound to name their rooms as was customary, divided into wings if the manor divided into further distances. But there were none here, which reassured him most, and he strode through the halls with simple glimpses of the names.

Sirius Black had visited the house, he read, as some dust were cleared by footprints but mostly paw prints. Kreacher hadn't cleaned it, he discovered to mild surprise, leaving the house unkept.

When he reached the end of the a corridor he read Regulus Arcturus Black.

And between himself and the door stood Kreacher.

"You are not allowed."

Had there been a time when he was more foolish Erlnier would have thrown a tantrum. It was a form of aggressiveness in which he forced his way through problems by the use of magic, wielded to his hands and frequent to his mind. He had in fact, been foolish, but in the midst of doing so had encroached upon an unfamiliar territory.

An elf, once loyal, remained always loyal.

A house elf, once bound to a master and pledged to service, remained in service.

A loyal house elf who was once bound to another, remained loyal to many masters, by its affliction dependant on its master's death.

_"Loyalty is a grand gesture of elves, Draco. It is their sole right. There may be elves who work for Lucius," Narcissa's eyes flickered to the door, "but there are no elves loyal to Lucius."_

"You are loyal to Regulus Black." Erlnier concluded softly.

It wasn't a hard conclusion to reach, when he'd been allowed in all rooms but one. When all the carpets of every hall had been left rotting to its core, but one.

Erlnier crouched and spoke haltingly.

"Regulus Black is dead, Kreacher."

"Kreacher knows. Kreacher knows, but failed master Regulus! Master Regulus!"

He'd never heard an elf wail before, but he heard it now, and preferred to never hear of it again. Kreacher had a grating, dark voice which, accompanied with his cries established a scream of a ghost. Elves could choose immortality if they so chose, but many aged with their masters of their choosing, reliant on the hereditary magic which flowed through their veins and became their weapon, and home.

Kreacher was an elf driven to insanity by grief. Sadness, Erlnier had learned, was the most prevalent emotion any human could portray, an emotions which had more expressions than happiness could bring. But such a devastating, destroyed sense of happiness stemmed from loyalty was rare, and the most finest quality.

"Didn't Sirius Black visit you?"

"He is a traitor of this family," Kreacher cried, "he has no care for the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black!"

He waited until the wails faded into silence. The house was dark, and there were no lights but the moonlight, which disappeared by the hour. But Erlnier didn't move, and neither did the elf.

"What does Mister Malfoy want?" Kreacher asked into the quiet.

"Sirius doesn't know much of Regulus Black, does he?" Erlnier asked back, "he doesn't care, whether he'd been against or with Voldemort, to him it's all the same. Those who were once threats of Harry Potter, remains a threat of Harry Potter. I suppose that's why he granted me access. To an ancestral home, no less. I thought it was due to his insanity, but our conversation had been insane, not his reason."

Kreacher didn't reply.

"When I spoke to him he lacked all sense. What did manage to get through was my honesty, I suppose. He's a Gryffindor in that aspect, someone who values honesty above all. But I wasn't honest. What I wanted was to steal anything of importance and value from the house, regardless of worth to Sirius Black, regardless of the disturbance I'd cause in its magic."

Kreacher's eyes were fixed on his, but the elf made no move, and neither did he.

"I've changed my mind," Erlnier declared, "I want to hear your story. And maybe, if I find it more valuable than anything else, I'll help you. I'm Erlnier Fawley, from the House of Fawley. There are many ways and more to grant a wish of yours."

The elf's large, drooping ears quivered. It's tears stopped, and its large nose twinged pink instead of red.

"Master Regulus spoke of the House of Fawley." Kreacher muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Master Regulus the First liked the House of Fawley. The House of Fawley is master Regulus' friend. Master Regulus had business with the House of Fawley."

A merchant in the trade of information selling. That was the darker side of the House of Fawley, where its wealth developed and grew. Rarely was it done in the Wizarding World, but those who were able to fathom its area of business could only be certain of the House's muggle give and gain, hence the motto which changed in the late 1700's by Britanniea Bliod: Gain All, Rot All, Stay All.

There were times when Erlnier wondered if Regulus Black the First was initially noted as Head of the House of Fawley simply because he was a Black, a prestigious name in society. Fortunately he was talented, grown by firm hands since youth much like himself, but there was always room for doubt considering what he had seen of the Blacks until now.

"Are you bound?" Erlnier asked.

Kreacher looked at him for a time he couldn't describe.

"No. Master Regulus promised Kreacher to secrecy. But Kreacher is not sworn. Not to those of the Black family."

Erlnier paused, then sighed.

"Does my promise as Draco Malfoy hold any weight to you, Kreacher?"

Another silence.

"Yes. Mister Draco Malfoy is Miss Narcissa's son."

With a sudden, firm grasp on his index finger, Kreacher led him to the kitchen's cupboards.

"Kreacher's master was kind. He was being nice to Mistress Walburga, he was being nice to Kreacher. But he finds the Dark Lord not being nice to Kreacher, so he decide to steal the Dark Lord's soul. But things go wrong. Kreacher sees master Regulus die. Kreacher cannot destroy horcrux. Kreacher failed master Regulus."

The elf's muttering turned into a soft whisper by the end of it's story, voice grating on the end of tears again. Kreacher was an elf who possessed no charms, and was the opposite of charming instead. But Erlnier could see himself driven to insanity in the near future if he had nothing against Voldemort as his parents were driven to death.

The elf's hiding place was small. Smaller than his form, and stank of rusty metal. Kreacher climbed in, still muttering, digging pieces of jewellery out of jewellery, until a soft silence washed over him.

"This is master's wish."

Erlnier stepped back.

"What is that."

"A horcrux. Pieces of a soul."

Erlnier felt the chain pool within his palm as Kreacher gently laid its pendant. He wished to rid of it from any contact, because he understood why Kreacher went mad. Hoarding the locket would have accelerated Kreacher's grief as the magic was too raw.

There were hereditary magic, and the diluted magic of les-autres. Then there was magic in its purest form, like raw lead and mercury. A horcrux was the most raw form of magic he'd ever seen.

"Kreacher. I don't understand."

"Master Regulus found out the Dark Lord puts his souls away into things. Puts into many things, he did, yes. So that he can live, and live again. So master Regulus stole a Salazar's locket from the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord's soul."

"Horcruxes."

"Yes. Immortality."

"Kreacher," Erlnier said after quick calculations, "I'm going to allow you access into Agin-Gamchicoth, the Fawley's House library. There, you'll find a container of pure silver-work, dated 1487. It will confine the raw magic, and its imprint won't torture you any longer. Leave the pendant there, and you may search the library on anything pertaining to horcruxes. And if you find a way, will you let me watch the horcrux be destroyed?"

"Kreacher can enter Agin-Gamchicoth?" Kreacher asked in awe.

Erlnier didn't know why the elf looked so reverent at the name of his House's library, but he nonetheless broke into a smile, and held his hand forward.

"Your previous master may have sworn you to secrecy, but you will at least be free of circumstances. I will not limit you on visiting the Ancestral House of Black, but all else, including my actions, words, and everything you've heard and seen around me, any and all interactions with me would have to be sworn to secrecy. I will rarely call on you. Would you consider?"

Kreacher grasped his hand.

"Kreacher will serve the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Kreacher will serve master Draco."

Erlnier would have leapt in joy, but refrained.

"On three, then. One, two, three:"

**"Nectō."**

...

"Unbelievable! You'd think he would have, at least the grace to tell us what happened afterwards, with all the effort we've put to protect him." Pansy grumbled as she headed to Potions.

"I think it's best you thank him," Fred said, "he could have left you in the mud." George concluded.

Pansy shivered.

Students who passed their group, of three Slytherins and the infamous Gryffindor twins, had to turn their heads once more to confirm what they've seen, and turn their heads twice in disbelief of what they heard.

"Excuse my judgement to save you all from the hound before we were all disabled. Anyone would have left you there, with a rabid, mad creature, in the dark. An error of conscience."

Blaise shot Draco a stifled glare.

"There's a trip to Hogsmeade just next week. Perhaps we would have been better off treasure hunting in daylight, under the mass of students unsupervised. Not an error of conscience but an act of emotional thinking, would be the right description."

"How dare you." Draco drawled.


	12. Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione Granger joins the fray.

"I've confirmed the locket you mentioned in the library, in the only heritage of our First. But Tea, Draco," aunt Vivian continued.

Draco nodded.

"You must have known, that upon sharing Tea's name with you there was a delegated responsibility, a sensibility at most, to keep yourself from calling her at such an hour, to gain yourself an elf, without prior notice to Tea herself. No matter the cause," she continued when Draco made to interrupt, "of what circumstances, it is a simple matter to simply call her name out of due respect and mention you've another elf for the keeping, regardless of your inheritance."

"I'll make the apology to her myself, Aunt Vi." Draco muttered.

The vivid green light shone in his face despite the curtains he'd drawn. He glanced at the time, half to six, and bemoaned his continuous lack of sleep as he turned back to the hand-mirror.

"It'd best be proper. There are limits, Draco, lines that must not be crossed in etiquettes. You've always struggled remaining steady during situations you deem excitable, and there your curiosity comes much into play."

"Of course, Aunt Vivian."

"The next time Tea comes to me with a question of your sanity, Merlin forbid, your mother will be the one to fish you out of Hogwarts."

"I've no doubt, Aunt Vivian."

"A horcrux in our house," she said as she tapped the connection close, "at this rate the war will-."

Draco considered the ringing words for more as he rubbed his forehead, then reaching to untie his bound curtains around his bed and dissolving the silencing spell, before the entire structure, both magical and physical, was torn apart by force.

"Draco. I've been calling you for the past few minutes."

He stared up dumbfounded at Blaise, who turned away to grab both their bags as though he hadn't torn apart his magic. Or invade his privacy. Or cause a tear in his curtains.

"We're going to be late."

"We have two more hours, Blaise." Draco said, his voice still laced with shock.

"Late to avoid Professor Snape." Blaise snarled.

Draco hastily caught the bag thrown his way. He was pulled, tugged, and pushed into the Great Hall, still hesitant as to why his lack of sleep couldn't be fixed on a bed, until he realised Professor Snape's sadism dictated students' punishment to be announced at the beginning of the next week on early Monday to make them suffer throughout.

When Blaise stared at him with a pointed eye-flick to Professor Snape's late entrance, Draco closed his eyes and groaned.

"Are you alright?" Pansy asked.

"Why now?" He grunted.

"Well, he sent me a rather knowing glare last Friday after we started hanging out with the twin gingers," Pansy whispered, "so when else but today? He's only so hard on his own house because he's to do it in secrecy; for the other houses to think we're privileged. But everyone knows he simply isn't bothered with all those other students."

Draco groaned harder as the Great Hall started to flood with students.

"Ooh," a first-grade Slytherin sang, "look, Pansy, it's Cedric."

Cedric Diggory was a proud, yet eager-to-help Hufflepuff who took to his duties as both prefect and team captain with the same amount of responsibility given in turn and therefore, popular amongst all girls. He hadn't spared a glance at Draco the entire year, although it was yet to be known whether it was out of prejudice.

Pot's entrance, however, immediately introduced the entire school to Draco Malfoy.

The eagle immediately took up a third of the table, knocking over other teacups and dishes and screeching into Blaise's ears in greeting. There was a spoonful of tomato soup which immediately carried over towards the nearest table, a piece of cheese flying overhead professor Snape's head, and the furthest plate shattering on the floor due to the momentum.

As eagles weren't allowed as private pets, Pot disappeared as fast as it'd arrived, clawing past the Professors' table and clattering their silverware. 

Draco plucked a feather out of his tea.

"Ew." Flint wretched at the upper half of the table.

(Draco sat towards the middle, bordering closer to the end sector, but no-one had made a protest of his seating yet.)

"Don't be dramatic, Flint," Draco said as he lifted the letter with his wand, a small levio and scourgify escaping his teeth, "both the soup and letter are fine."

"Are you planning to continue eating?" Pansy asked.

"And waste a perfectly good soup? May your parents grieve over your exquisite tastes, Pansy Parkinson."

"Oh, fuck you." Pansy nonchalantly said in equal measure.

There was a sharp rebuke of language from somewhere up the table, but it was ignored. Like always.

"Malfoy, your fucking owl just shoved a spoonful of soup up Harry Potter's nose. Malfoy. Oi, Malfoy!"

"Higgs, shut your shite for a moment." Blaise said as he read the letter by him.

"Language!" A voice drifted in.

"From Viktor Krum? Draco, do you know Viktor Krum?"

At Pansy's excited whisper the entire table fell into a hush, which blatantly grabbed the attention of Gryffindors, then Ravenclaws, then Hufflepuffs in turn. Draco glared at Pansy who meekly shrugged, but continued to read down the letter.

"Malfoy," Higgs shouted, "can I see?"

"It's not a reply of a fan-based fawnings, Higgs. He's one of the few close contacts from Durmstrang, in case you've forgotten the transfer notice on the noticeboard several months back. But if you're interested," Draco turned to the muggle-born, "if you've a fan-letter to attach, I'm sure Pot carries more than one letter a travel."

Higgs bolted out of his seat and immediately began to seek a parchment and quill. Draco skimmed the letter over once more, before glancing towards the Hufflepuffs. Blaise smiled.

"That, is a rather encouraging letter of praise, especially for someone like Viktor."

"Never be it known that he's less competitive," Draco smiled, "his ego's as large as his broom. He's found a competitor in Cedric Diggory of all people."

"What about me?"

Cedric Diggory's attention was grasped the moment Viktor's name echoed, and had drifted closer the more the letter was discussed, until he was practically leant over the Gryffindor's table with his knee on the bench despite the protests.

"Allow me to translate: 'I don't know his name, but the published Hogwarts Quidditch scores for the Hufflepuff team has risen sharply the past few months ever since their seeker changed. Any details?'"

A bright red patch bloomed across Cedric's cheeks as the Hufflepuffs broke out in claps. Draco glanced at Diggory's wide eyes with interest.

"Could you, could you tell him, my name's Cedric Diggory and, I'm honoured."

"Tell him yourself," Draco answered, "you'll need some time. Bring the letter to the library after classes, sealed if you must. Pot isn't allowed in the owlery."

Cedric Diggory similarly bolted out of the Great Hall.

...

Draco and Blaise headed towards the library soon after classes ended, although Blaise had suggested more than once to turn their way in mild humour. Such humour could be considered passable to some they saw an acquaintance, Draco had persuaded, but clearly they were on a sensitive topic called fan-man-ship.

Blaise had stared at him with mild distaste, but agreed nonetheless. After all, they'd been to a concert once, led by Simon Walter's eagerness, into a crowd of les-autres jumping up and down in a sweat-filled platform. The music had been bland, but when described as such they had come under the attack of many verbal abuse. They assumed the same was to be predicted of Viktor Krum.

Perhaps he'd lacked too much of a sleep, he didn't notice Hermione Granger until she was right before him rounding a corner.

"Woah," he said as he steadied her, "Granger?"

Blaise peered over his shoulder.

Her cheeks were muddled flush, eyes clear with tears.

"Oh, Draco." She said, hurrying to wipe her face.

Draco glanced at Granger in surprise, as he hadn't thought of their relationship as much beyond a classmate. Blaise simply stared in return.

"Well. Granger, Blaise Zabini. Blaise, Hermione Granger."

"Nice to meet you, Granger." Blaise said.

He then, quite unexpectedly, took Granger's bag on her behalf and patted her back to the nearest room, which happened to be the library. He sent Draco a gaze, and it was then Draco realised Blaise was acting the part of a gentleman Pansy had drilled into his conscience in a way of brainwashing. Draco was too resilient for her, but Blaise and Pansy had been eager to inflict each other with mental harm.

"Granger," Draco said as he took the remaining books from her arm, "have you been ignoring my advice?"

"No! I did. It was really helpful, I've been meaning to thank you. But, but Harry and Ron's just. They're being so stupid!"

Draco didn't know every ongoing at Hogwarts. He had at Durmstrang, and it had been a comfort to lead some people by their nose, but Hogwarts wasn't his territory and neither did he find the urge to make it so. But the small amount of gossip passing Slytherin's common room he eagerly participated in and Pansy's continuous stream of information was all he needed to survive and, therefore, know the trio of steadfast Gryffindor had fell apart not a day before.

Neither of them made a move to acknowledge knowing the rumour, but Blaise seated them in the furthest corner of the library which, for the first time in long, was fortunately vacant.

"How?"

"Harry got a new broom from an unknown person and I just wanted him to be safe, so I told Professor McGonagall to check on the broom, and now they're mad at me because Harry has to miss out on Quidditch, but it's just not safe!"

They would have been kicked out of the library had Blaise not casted a silencing charm in time, leaving her to mouth the remainder of her tirade and Draco to read from her lips:_"There's nothing else as important as his safety, is there? I was just worried since Sirius Black's out for Harry! I don't understand! I was just looking out for him!"_

She then began sobbing mutely into her arms, the sleeves of her robes turning wet. Blaise lifted the silencing charm.

"You should know, us boys are temperamental, if not more than women. Especially when it comes to an accomplishment, or something which gives us momentary leave of stress. So if the broom was any emotional attachment to Potter, he wouldn't know right from wrong." Draco said.

"Anger's mostly a foremost reaction," Blaise agreed, "for all the wrong purposes, mind."

Granger looked at them, then broke into a trembling smile.

"So, all boys have anger issues?"

"Well, you don't see usually us crying in anger, we're mostly red."

"Higgs and Diggory are coming." Draco interrupted as he turned his head away from the shelf.

Granger faltered briefly, shifting in her seat as though she would make to leave. When she saw Draco staring, she lifted her bag and hugged it close to her chest and stayed. When Higgs walked in on them, he said nothing about the Gryffindor by the window and, instead pretending as though he hadn't seen, slapped an envelope down.

"Here. I really need to go since Professor Snape needs me for something." Higgs started as he checked his watch, "and I'll work on an excuse on both of your behalves."

"Does professor Snape favour you?" Cedric asked incredulously.

"No, Diggory, shut up!" Higgs shouted as he rushed out.

Cedric rolled his eyes. It wasn't until he came face to face with Draco Malfoy's grey-eyed stare which, frankly unnerved him in intensity up close, that he began to stutter. A palm was brought to the back of his neck in a nearly instinctive gesture.

"Um, here's mine, Draco. I hope you don't mind."

"The offer was already made," Draco said as he took the letter, "it's Pot's responsibility now."

He placed Diggory's letter on the table without a second glance, above Higgs', then placed his own. He reached for the nearest space of air by him, and to the incredulous gaze of all but Blaise Zabini, pulled an eagle out of thin air. Pot, the largest Philippine eagle of its breed, was greater than Draco's arm in height and taller than Draco in wingspan. So to have such a creature so silent in the library was, ironically, a majestic scene.

"Oh-my-god," Hermione Granger whispered.

"These are to Viktor Krum. Please don't scratch him."

Pot dug its nails through the envelopes, and tapped its beak on his hand. It was still quiet.

"Was that, did you just pull him out of a dimension? That's Dark magic, isn't it?"

"Granger," Draco spoke with disappointment, "you should know better than others that magic cannot be defined."

Blaise laughed.

"We're allowed to experiment in Durmstrang. Once, the headmistress had to stuff blood back into a first year girl's body, because she tried to summon a manticore and the runes sucked her dry. That, had been one bloody mess."

Draco smiled as he stuck Pot back into the dimension.

"Do you remember the time that eighth year got stuck between the dimensions on the third corridor?" He said, ignoring Hermione's gaping mouth, "Aunt Vivian had to fold the entire school's dimensions together, and reattach his legs before pulling him out. That was hilarious."

"People say there's only one of two witches or wizards which comes out of Durmstrang. Someone to lead the century, or someone dark." Cedric whispered to Hermione.

Blaise and Draco dissolved into well-meant smiles, barely holding back their laughter as they knocked their shoulders together.

"Hermione? What are you doing here?"

Fred and George Weasley poked their heads around the corner, George immediately settling his hands on Draco's shoulder as though the question had meant no harm.

"Oh, I'm." Hermione hesitated. "I just, needed some time away from, you know." She waved her hands.

"Really? But why are you talking to Draco, here?" George shook Draco's shoulders back and forth.

"Perhaps," Blaise began, "she seeks no gingers."

Draco remained silent, as there was no hostility in their manners, nor the hand on his shoulders. Besides, he thought to himself, they were more than bound to him, and minutely fearful. If their previous demonstrations hadn't shown that, as they talked to him and Blaise, and occasionally Pansy, their recent attachment to wherever he went no matter the time or place, showed frightening displays of their wariness. They never meant poor, but neither better.

Keep your enemies close, Draco reminded himself, something Aunt Vivian fondly mentioned with a mocking smile.

They watched as Hermione grew into anxious habits, a finger in her hair, a rapid scan through books, a halting smile. By the time she manage to stutter a word, barely a self-introduction, the twins laughed. Rather quietly, as they'd snuck into the library since they were banned last year.

"Hermione, merlin, you should have seen your face! Don't worry, we're friends with Draco, this little snake, as much as you are, maybe more. A right brat he is, we know, but not bad, like all the others say. Hey, how did you get to know him? He doesn't have friends outside of his house aside from us. And Luna."

"Should your words be considered an intrusion of my privacy," Draco drawled, "or should there be more wards around my belongings?"

"We're already planning something, not for you though," Fred took over his brother's mouth, "we want to have a good laugh, especially at such a time, and we're hoping you'd help us turn the Great Hall's sky pink."

"I, am standing right here." Cedric frowned at them.

"It's harmless, Cedric," George began, "it's just turning it pink, nothing more." Fred finished.

Draco watched Cedric's eyes turn into a glare, but read contemplation.

"Twins," he announced, "unless Cedric's face is much deceiving, it seems he has an idea to add, not take."

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

They briefly turned to gauge her reaction, and Cedric conceded with a hesitant smile.

"I've been wondering. I've always wanted to try."

"Ooh, Cedric Diggory the nice Hufflepuff boy isn't so nice now, is he?"

"No, brother, he was a secret, evil badger."

Cedric ignored all of them.

"Can we make it snow pink, too? And, have that snow cause some kind of reaction? I've always wanted to see Dumbledore without a beard."

"That, Cedric," Draco entwined his fingers as he leaned forward, "requires enchantments which erases all hair save the head's."

"Not those boring enchantments, he's talking about the ones which makes those candles float and disappear at will." Blaise added.

"That's what we've been asking the Grey Lady!" Fred started, "since she's a Ravenclaw and all, but a ghost, she's less likely to tell anyone." George finished.

"You've been asking the Grey Lady about enchantments?" Hermione asked in surprise.

"She's rather nice one your bribe her with the most recent books," George began, "and read it to her, since she can't read them herself." Fred added.

"You won't have to," Draco spoke up.

"You and your showing off." Blaise rolled his eyes.

...

Draco sat on his broom, legs on either side, and hovered over Marcus' head.

"So, all you need to do is catch the snitch."

"Marcus," Draco elongated his name, "you told me there were many available positions."

"And I said you, should be a seeker."

"No."

"I just saw you walk on your broom."

"Hermione won't tell anyone."

Hermione Granger glanced at him from where she was sitting on the field with book scattered around her. Draco had taken to accompanying her to satisfy her curiosity in every spare time he found aside from communal activities. And they became close enough, surprising both his house and her prior friends, and whilst the Slytherins had done or said nothing to provoke her ire, her immediate acquaintance with him with a second confrontation they had about a rat and a cat just a few days prior caused her to completely ignore Harry Potter's apparent well-wishes.

Draco had to therefore listen to Hermione Granger's unending rants of Ron Weasley's stupidity most days, at all times.

"I did see that." Hermione betrayed as she stuck her nose back into Marcus' potions notes.

Draco swung his direction back to Marcus.

"Look, Quidditch is understandably a matter of pride, but there's no reason to sacrifice a transfer student to turn your nose against Gryffindors."

"You're no transfer student, no-one even remembers you're from Durmstrang. Now. Be a seeker. And catch the snitch."

The golden piece of shit hovered over his left arm in a flurry of a mosquito's whine.

"I walked on my broom because the bludger you threw was aimed at my head, Marcus," Draco shouted, "not because I want to be a seeker!"

Marcus blinked at him. Draco glared back, and had to second-guess what he saw. Marcus was smiling.

"You've got to be a seeker. For me. Harry Potter's been Dumbledore's favourite for the past few years, Draco, we need to win fairly just this once. Everyone knows you're so _proper_. If you catch the snitch, it won't be a matter of broom or talent but a justified victory."

"That doesn't work on me, Marcus." Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Please? Just this once. Come on, I've helped you through Slytherin's most stubborn sort."

He really had, Draco considered, because words didn't work on Nott, Crabbe and the Carrows. Draco hadn't the patience to sway them, but Flint had, despite this year being his last. Although, in return, Draco had helped Flint understand several subjects so as to not repeat a second year.

Marcus Flint wasn't stupid, as everyone outside of the Slytherin House had judged. Repeating a year had been to advance his position as an assistant professor of DADA to have verifiable credits in MACUSA's terms of employment, which his father's acquaintance was stationed as an auror. But instead of asking Lupin, he had asked Flitwick, not only because of Lupin's lacking credentials but Flitwick's reputation.

All Draco had to do was revise the classes Marcus missed as he worked on an essay for the application of charms during a fight against several with a stranger's wand. No-one knew Marcus' official position, that he was grading the first year's papers from time to time, because Marcus knew better than to say it.

Draco realised Marcus had leant Hermione his potions notes specifically for the purpose of bribing her. Draco glared at Hermione's head, and she sniffed, to but prop the book up further to cover her face.

"Just for one game." Draco conceded, seeing no ways out.

"One. This May."

"Assuming we win the match against the Ravenclaws next week?"

"We've already won that." Draco was certain Marcus was wearing an extremely satisfied smile, "by the way, you just said 'we'."

Draco paused.

"Fucking son of a swine," he said, "putain, va te faire enculer."

"That is not very nice, Draco."

"Shut up."

"You can be a chaser after this season." Marcus reassured.

"Branleur, don't you dare think I don't know what you're planning."

Hermione stifled a giggle. When Draco turned, again with a pointed raised brow, she'd already stuck her nose back into her, and Marcus' books.

"Come on, now, give me a spin. Go catch the snitch."

Draco threw both fingers up at Marcus' face before turning to the gold, buzzing piece of ball which whined enthusiastically at his attention.

...

_1994 February 19th_

"We need the rotation list for which professor's doing the enchantments tomorrow." Fred announced.

"On the ceiling?" Cedric repeated with a yawn.

"Yes, Cedric, that's what we've been talking about this noon."

"Don't fall asleep." Hermione chided.

"It's midnight," Blaise questioned, "can't we push the plan back? There's enough time for the end-of-year celebrations."

"Pranks don't work that way!" The twins chorused.

"Does anyone know someone close enough to rifle through Professor McGonagall's desk?" Draco asked with a muffled voice.

Everyone had brought pillows and several blankets into the empty potions storage room. Draco had been suspect Snape knew they'd been hiding out since classes were closed, but hadn't bothered to say a thing. Draco similarly feared for the following week.

"Susan Bones." Cedric suddenly announced.

"Susan Bones?" Hermione echoed.

"She flips through piles of paper like they're nothing and finds the most important papers with a glance. I've seen her look through the monstrosity she called her desk and pull just her homework out within seconds. Her aunt, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, apparently gives her sessions on Defence Against the Dark Arts, and office work. Her internship is as well as secured."

"Madam Susan Bones is very meticulous indeed." Draco agreed.

"You've met her?" Hermione Granger swerved her head to him with gleaming, rather imposing eyes.

"She's come to Durmstrang for a lecture at the Pavilion, once."

"What Pavilion?" Fred asked.  
  
"The student version of the Wizengamot." Blaise answered.

"No way." George whispered.

"Is Susan awake at this hour?" Hermione asked Cedric.

She looked, Draco silently thought, ready to cheer in victory of finding another study-driven member of her imaginary fellowship.

"Yes. She's awake at all hours. I've never seen her sleeping. For a Hufflepuff, she's rather determined, and mad. Obsessed, even."

"You're a prefect," Draco spoke through his yawn, "go get her."

"To summarize, we need to inscribe some runes in addition to the ones lining the ceiling, four enchantments to cover the entire ceiling, and a potion to fuse into the ceiling's enchantments for Cedric's hairless prank." Hermione read from her notes as Fred and George nodded along.

"We need to add one enchantment for spell-altercations, which means we need to come up with a spell to trigger the whole prank. The second enchantment has to be done by four people simultaneously, from one corner to another, for the basic color change. Third, the snow, which will be materialised. Fourth, a enchantment to incorporate the hairless potion with the snow."

Fred and Geroge looked at each other with a frown.

"We've seen Dumbledore cast the enchantments, and the professors doesn't question him when he does it." 

"Of course not." Blaise agreed.

Susan Bones snorted from where she stood while Cedric closed the door after her.

"You people are mad," she said haughtily, "but I already have the professors' schedules and habits memorized. The Great Hall is due for a re-working of enchantments next month, not this month, since the once-over happens at the beginning of each major feast, which isn't happening due to the ongoing Hogsmeade trips. Use your brains, won't you?"

"That is predictable for students who've made cautious observations. For a disinterested transfer student, it's the least of all worries." Draco retorted.

"What a waste, then, since you've had to give up so much."

"Confidence is an entire different matter of will."

They glared at each other.

"Wow," George commented snidely from the side, "what a momentous day of Hogwarts unity."


	13. Ron Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...This was meant to be a boring story, with politics and stuff.

_20th February, 1994_

The Great Lake shimmered underneath the morning sun. Luna's hair glittered with it, rather unseemingly as it was soaked. She rinsed her hair into the water even further, which prompted Draco to reach out and steady her balance. It had been some time since the Ravenclaws decided bullying was a time-consuming project, and like reasonable children regarding marks, had left Luna to her own devices.

Draco had asked if he should have embedded the idea much sooner into their heads, but Luna had pointed out he'd only been distracted.

And, in regards to his continued interactions with Hermione Granger, the Weasley twins, Cedric Diggory, and Susan Bones, it was understandable that she would think that way, that he was distracted too much to enjoy the recent months nearing December, but her forgiveness was not enough to alleviate the guilt of forgoing his attention. While he had known Luna was strategically bullied, he hadn't considered Ginny Weasley's increasing fanaticism of Harry Potter would leave Luna vulnerable.

In that aspect, added to Hermione's unending discouraging rants of Ronald Weasley, he could barely tamper the growing judgement against most of the Weasleys. Luna wrung her hair out again, and dipped it in the Great Lake, again. Draco hauled her waist back when she tipped over, again.

"How," Draco asked with a scrunched nose, "does that help your hair shine."

"Apparently, the water has magical properties only the giant squid emits. I'm not quite sure myself. It's an experiment."

"I can see your experiments are doing nothing to help your reputation."

"While you've been taking a very well-meant break," Luna glanced at Draco, "I've drawn the rabbits and carrots, giving the Wrackspurts excuses to attach themselves. So, I'm going to use this only interlude to brighten my hair."

Draco's mouth fell open.

"I've been keeping track of Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. Aside from the fact that Sirius Black is an animagus, and the probability Peter Pettigrew may be even more so, I've nowhere to go from that point! Besides, I can't track down horcruxes when I can sense its magic moving throughout the entire school."

"Then have you," Luna glanced behind him, "at least tried running?"

Draco's face altered between disgust and mock horror before he, too, turned to check who was approaching them.

"Hello, Hermione."

"Hermione?" Draco echoed.

"Hello, Luna. Hi, Draco."

Draco took in Luna's brighter smile, and concluded: "You know her."

"Oh, Hermione's been a great friend, actually. She's helped me with some of the Blibbering Humdingers. They really distract you from studying."

"I was surprised to hear that you both were close," Hermione rushed, "and that you've even lived together, once? In France?"

"Yes. How are your friends, Hermione?"

"Fine. I was about to ask you, I've asked Cedric and the others already, whether you've seen or heard anything yesterday? Ron's been more obnoxious this morning because of everything from yesterday. Can you believe what he's been saying about you? How you confunded me, or slipped a love potions into my food, to make me friends with you? Apparently, _I _convinced you to send Sirius Black after him as revenge! When I confronted him about it-"

"The Slytherin's common room is opposite Gryffindor's." Draco interrupted.

"Yes. Right." Hermione blushed, "but I was trying to say, I heard some rumours about how you sent Sirius Black to kill Harry Potter. Considering how I've been complaining about Ron the past few weeks, I wanted to ask if. Not that I would believe in such rumours, of course not. But I can't ignore the slightest possibility since your Mother's maiden name is apparently Black?"

"You," Draco frowned, "are doing extremely poor on asking questions seemingly inadvertently. No, the rumours aren't true. Pansy came up with it while we were talking, and other people overheard. Killing people, well, it's obvious Slytherins wouldn't have done so blatantly, isn't it."

Hermione paled.

"No, I meant. Well, Ron's been talking in my ear and out about some things which are, I get it, unrealistic."

"Personally speaking, you've participated greatly in lowering my opinion of Ron Weasley."

Hermione fell silent.

"Perhaps," Draco began, "you should resolve the complicated issue between yourself and Ron Weasley, before approaching me again. Considering the injustice you've apparently suffered with the incidents behind Harry Potter's broom and Ron Weasley's rat, the approach he's taken towards my mother is something that shouldn't have been mentioned at all. You've told me you've made up with your friends, but clearly you haven't resolved your own feelings."

"Yes." Hermione agreed.

"But if there's anything in agreement, the fact that Sirius Black did approach Ron Weasley with a knife in his hands means there's something about Ron Weasley that Sirius Black deems threatening towards his own safety. As a convict, or with a purpose. That's the opinion you wanted, wasn't it?"

Luna's hand came up to his shoulder. Draco didn't turn to look at her but sighed in frustration as he tipped his head back. The Great Lake rippled.

"Draco," Hermione began.

"No, I'm sorry for talking like that. I have been stressed about Sirius Black's appearance, too."

Hermione nodded, and sat down next to them by the bank.

"I'm sorry, Draco."

"The Nargles must have switched the love potions!" Luna exclaimed out of nowhere.

Draco held back what he would have done, an exaggerated motion of vomiting, which instead puffed out his cheeks. "We should ask the others to meet up this evening," Draco said instead, "having several heads would help. Are you coming, Luna?"

"It would be nice to talk to a Hufflepuff."

Hermione couldn't tell whether her answer had been a yes, or a no, but Draco dragged Luna up by her elbow anyways and dried her hair with a charm. With another wave of his hand, Hermione realised with surprise, Luna's messy hair pleated itself into a braid, then wrapped into a bun. Draco pulled out a hairpin, from nowhere Hermione noted, and stuck it in.

"Oh," Hermione muffled her astonishment.

"The hairpin isn't mine," Draco mistakenly explained, "but my Aunt and mother have several lying around they made it into my belongings."

Luna turned to look at Hermione's wide eyes, and winked.

...

"Mate, you look like death has turned you inside out." Fred and George chorused at Blaise.

George lifted Blaise's face by his chin, and turned it to and fro, as Fred tugged his drooping eyelids higher. Blaise surprisingly didn't react to the hands all over his face, instead observing the twins' faces as closely, which made a surprisingly suited scene.

As this was their third meeting of the week in the middle of the night well until dawn, Blaise's drooping eyes made more sense than Fred and George's immortality. Ever since Draco had first asked each other their opinions, of everyone he knew, they'd been more than determined to gather and talk each other's ears off. In spite, Hermione had somehow convinced Cedric staying up late under his permission was a better idea, and with her untold mystical powers, gained the permission of professor Hagrid too.

"My mother's correspondences have increased, including several letters to answer over the week. You've got new creases around your eyes." Blaise noted, and indeed, there were faint marks on their faces which hadn't been, and darker skin throughout. Had it not been for the proximity Blaise wouldn't have noticed.

"It's Ronnikin'." They chorused back as though it answered all questions.

"Should he be the problem? Hogwarts might close at this rate." Blaise shot back.

Susan threw another firewood into the fireplace, and poked it with the iron stick. She hadn't been invited, but had invited herself, and they'd all but agreed not to exclude her from conversations she privately told him were interesting. Her interest had more to do with the political gossip Pansy carried around with her like a suitcase of legal lawsuits, and so the two mostly kept to themselves by the fire in their personal world.

"I've found it more surprising that there hasn't been a mention of Hogwarts at all. Especially when all our parents have been informed of our lockdown but has resorted to letters instead of pressuring Dumbledore."

"Very true. Percy Weasley's been keeping some sensibility in the matter and from what the professors have noted, managed to confine the rumours in Hogwarts to Hogwarts alone. Imagine how its reputation would have swayed had the parents known to what extent Sirius Black had gone to harm a student. We wouldn't have been here, especially not Draco. Thank Merlin for Percy, really." Pansy rolled her eyes, "all of your brothers are estranged from politics other than him, and he at least knows where to start than shaking up the school even more. As a student, no less!"

"We need to rethink the prank, it's not the time," Blaise began, and the twins weren't given a chance to refute their opinions on Percy, their eldest brother, as the conversation rapidly progressed. "Scrap it entirely, and focus on this matter..."

Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Luna, Hermione, Susan, and Cedric all nodded, and considering how the twins were the only ones with sour faces, there was a large majority in agreement. They were an odd group, Draco knew this too: A mix of Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw mixed in acquaintance, friendship, secrets, awe, lies, and fear in the middle of the night nearing dawn.

"...and look at the facts."

"Sirius Black was standing right next to him when he woke up. He was raising a knife, and was about to stab, but Ron screamed so loudly he ran, or rather, disappeared." Hermione paused. "But why Ron?"

"Better yet, is it Ron?"

They turned to stare at Susan Bones, who huffed and rolled her eyes. Her bluntness was what reminded him of Felis, her sharp tongue of Joheim. For the first time in his Hogwarts experience, Draco was genuinely paying attention to a peer's opinion.

"Ron was scared. Frightened. He'd just woken up, and Sirius Black was standing _next to his bed with a knife._ When Ron's wand was _on the bedside table._ So unless he needs Ron's blood for a ritual, why not a spell? Why not stab him as he screams instead of running? What is there to hide that he cannot kill him while he's sleeping?"

"Oh," Draco breathed out, "you think he wants something else."

"Yes. Blood, a safe to open, Ron's hair to disguise himself. Whatever it is, it can't be Ron."

"Sirius Black may have been aiming for Harry!" Hermione exclaimed indignantly.

"The professors are taking better care of your precious Harry Potter better than Ron, who was an actual witness. They've dismissed his sightings as hallucinations, but are more cautious of Harry Potter's safety. If Sirius Black really intended to harm Harry Potter, he may as well have summoned Dumbledore faster than he could say a killing curse. Do you really believe the professors haven't set up tracking spells and hostility spells around their beloved Boy-Who-Lived?"

"But Ron never sleeps with his blanket," Fred interrupted, "he kicks it first chance he gets even during Christmas, and with enough time to aim for something in the dark, Sirius Black would have seen his face. But our family has nothing to do with Sirius Black. If anyone, Draco would know."

"But he doesn't." Cedric interrupted rather bravely.

Cedric looked as though he didn't want to be there at all, but he was, mostly out of responsibility for the company he deemed too young. Draco wondered if he felt sympathetic to the Weasley family. The fireplace crackled right beside him, and in the cozy armchair, Draco's mind wandered to the newspaper he'd seen when he first arrived at Hogwarts, trampled by many small feet, to at least re-read the publication on Sirius Black's escape. His body detested the idea of moving, however, so he remained settled in his armchair sending silent stares to Luna, who was lying down on the floor with her arms and legs stretched towards the ceiling.

She didn't glance back at him despite feeling his gaze, but shook out her hair and began to pick it apart strand by strand. Pansy was the one to stand, instead, from a chair pushed to the furthest corner of the fireplace to dry Susan's nails she'd been colouring in great concentration, and shooke out a newspaper she pulled right out of Cedric's hands.

"Sirius Black, who murdered innocent muggles and a wizard, escaped Azkaban. We're looking for him the best we can. A reward to those who catch him, dead or alive." Pansy had only given a frank conclusion, and Draco wondered if he should call the night, a night, so that they'd be able to function the next morning.

"Sirius Black is an animagus."

Luna's declaration froze the room. Draco wondered, briefly, if she'd truly grown delusional. If Luna's occlumency was failing her, there was a need to revisit his Aunt no matter how much she insists on washing her hands off their Hogwarts experience. He stared blankly at his pseudo-sister, rather disappointed internally, while everyone else took to wide eyes. Then their brains scrambled to understand the situation, while Blaise, Fred, George, and Pansy collapsed back into their seats.

"Sirius Black is an animagus?" Susan Bones repeated.

"Ohmygod," Hermione stuttered, "did you all know? Why are you telling us now? Why not earlier?"

She was glaring at the twins, then specifically fixed her eyes on Blaise. Pansy threw the newspaper on the floor and raised her hands in mock-surrender.

"We had a theory that Sirius Black was an animagus when the esteemed Harry Potter performed a dramatic fall from the sky during Quidditch. I recognised the intrusive magic, then the dog, and finally understood why dementors were on field. The twins, there, helped us track down the magic to the Shrieking Shack when we tried to follow him out of school," Blaise glanced at Draco who said nothing, but blinked once slowly, "but we were knocked unconscious. Draco and the Weasleys 3n'3 weren't."

"Thanks for the new nickname, mate. Not as if we needed it." 3&3 chorused.

"You went out of school in the middle of the night to track down Sirius Black?" Cedric shouted. "I'm deducting points for that!"

Blaise and Pansy rolled their shoulders in a shrug. Draco cared even less, and simply ignored Cedric's outburst. He kept staring at Luna until she tilted her chin further up towards the ceiling, her shoulders lifting slightly off the carpet. She smiled, and rolled onto her stomach.

"It's really funny," Luna spoke again, "how Ron's rat is missing a finger too."

Draco's brain somersaulted in his head. He looked down at Luna who was now holding the paper against the ground, the picture of the Weasley family displayed on its front. She folded its corners one by one, until the paper was folded into a neat square with the rat right in its center. Everyone stared in silence.

"Ron's rat is missing a finger too." Susan Bones echoed faintly, blinking the faint buzz in her head away.

Draco, in bare reach of her toes, kicked it. She sent him a _what-the-hell _glare, and he replied with a wave of his hands from his head down to his mouth, _think-before-you-speak-you-idiot_, then finished it off with half an eye roll.

"What is so important about Ron's rat missing a finger-"

"A finger!" Cedric shouted.

Draco groaned, and rubbed his forehead.

"Merlin's balls," Blaise muttered as he gently pried the newspaper away from Luna's hands, "if Sirius Black is an animagus, what's the say the wizard who got killed isn't? Susan, your theory would make much more sense."

"It's a rather far stretch, don't you think?"

"Draco, your Slytherin friends clearly know something we don't. Talk. Now."

Draco huffed.

"We've shared a theory that, in light of my mother's ruminations of how Sirius Black was so utterly enamoured with James Potter he was disowned, he couldn't have betrayed the Potters. In hindsight, there was much hypothesis and less facts we've acted on, but considering how there was only a finger left behind from his exchange with the deceased Peter Pettigrew, I spoke frequently of how Peter Pettigrew could have made an escape and turned the blame on Black. Obviously, with Ron's rat missing a finger, Luna thinks Peter Pettigrew may as well be an animagus."

"Our family had that rat for ages, Malfoy. For a decade."

"No rat lives more than a decade." Cedric defended.

Draco didn't know what prompted Cedric to defend him so frequently, but he did. The furthest they've talked was about Quidditch in Durmstrang, where Draco explained its mechanics to Cedric and passed along Viktor's letters while walking down the corridors.

"Luna?" Draco crossed an arm over his chest, and rubbed his eyes with another. Draco, she returned with a smile, and tilted her head. If anyone had known how to read her movements without being distracted by the bullshit she spouted, they would've been surprised at her mocking tone.

"We could simply check with a Revelio as long as the rat can be smuggled out for an hour tomorrow evening."

"There's a problem with that plan. Ron lost his rat."

The entire group stared at the twins in disbelief.

"Ron. Lost. His. Rat." Susan parroted, but it sounded more ominous than the fact she'd been repeating other people's words for the past minute.

"That explains so much! Ron's been complaining about how Crookshanks ate his pet, but oh, if he was an animagus, is an animagus, what's not to say cut off another finger to run away from Sirius Black, again! And to think my cat, my poor cat was accused of, of murder!"

"Oh, tell us more." Susan cracked her neck, words drenched in sarcasm.

Hermione Granger began to cry, babble, and reason psychology all at once. It really wasn't the time to be inconsolable, but Cedric reached around Draco's neck to pat Hermione's back, wondering how far-fetched their hypothesis seemed to be, or must have been had it not been Blaise, Pansy, and the twins' confirmation. He blinked several times at the ceiling in exhaustion.

Draco raised a finger at Susan.

...

"This isn't working. Draco. Do something."

Draco stared down at Marcus Flint who hovered beneath him on his broom, sending him desperate pleas which had began, Draco checked the time, five minutes past the beginning of their game and well into half-time.

"Marcus," he elongated his name, "you're giving me a horrible headache of deja-vu."

"Do something." Marcus hissed.

A few Slytherin players rushed against Gryffindor's beaters, but were sent on a wild goose chase by Harry Potter who feigned a sudden dive. Marcus sent a quick glance, and shook Draco's leg in frustration.

"The fucking snitch," Draco began, "doesn't really appear when you will it-"

The snitch fluttered by Marcus' head. The tiny little shite was truly a piece of work.

"Fous-toi."

"What?"

Draco lunged.

The salaud made a three-sixty and zoomed right past Marcus' groins, to which Draco followed. He ignored the following shout, and gritted his teeth. Draco had utterly, truly enough of the thing Marcus had forced him to follow once a week, the salaud which was geared and charmed to play two players against another depending on the magician or witch's intent. He often had to see all unsightly sights of Marcus Flint when invited to a training session, and even now did he have to avoid running his face across the Slytherin's keeper's mouth who'd been doing nothing but gape in horror.

Flipping onto a knee on his broom, Draco narrowed his eyes at the salaud. He didn't notice the gasp behind his ears, the collective hush across the stands, because in that brief moment of insanity he dropped the most minimal occlumency barriers he maintained.

That salaude paused, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of intent. It was deciding where to flee, as its enchantments dictated, the hesitance edging across a millisecond with the minds of a bird and insect combined. But Draco had already prepared to lunge.

He jumped.

Not in such a dangerous manner to be chastised by Luna later, but enough to kick his broom forwards instead of backwards. Snatching the salaude from where it was humming, he managed to hook a foot across the wood along with his left hand, both skin scraping against its surface, before swinging back up on the momentum. He sat, then, utterly unaware of the cry which had sounded behind him as he rebuilt his occlumency walls, his lower spine nestled against the broom's wide branches, cursing.

"You piece of golden shite," Draco mumbled, "I fucking hate you. Fuck Marcus, fuck Quidditch, I'm never playing again."

He laid there, panting, and nearly fell off a broom for the first time in his life when the entire school roared into life.

"Draco Malfoy!" Marcus shouted, "Draco!"

"180-40! Slytherin wins! Draco Malfoy caught the snitch! He, he caught it!"

Draco closed his eyes, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the wood. The Bound-Swing was something Viktor had been imagining for some time, but found unable to perform with his heavier, taller body. He'd recommended it to Draco who was less worked up, smaller, and lighter, in hopes of satisfying his own dream to at least, see it being performed live. Viktor, Draco thought, would be cursing up a storm if he knew Draco pulled it off at Hogwarts.

"Wow." Draco heard, but didn't bother turning his head. Glaring down Marcus who was approaching him for a hug, he floated down to the field, and laid there with his eyes closed against the sun.

...

Luna hummed in displeasure.

"I'm telling."

"Aunt Vi won't say anything. She's not even going to react. I'm more worried about Viktor."

Becoming an instant celebrity overnight wasn't easy, Blaise had warned, and Draco felt the prickle of Blaise's amused look against his skin. Or much against his eye-bags which were turning blue by the second.

"No, I'm telling Aunt Narcissa."

Draco froze.

"No, you're not."

"You leapt off a broom. Maybe the Wrackspurts got into your head through your ears, or maybe Marcus gave his Nargles to you, because they're more active around this time of the year, but cousin, you weren't even protected!"

Luna tugged her bag forward as she marched towards Professor Flitwick's classroom. The classroom was the only place Draco felt more relieved in, as no-one dared to disrespect Professor Flitwick, who was firmly on Luna's side after witnessing her being bullied in her first year.

"She's going to hang me up on a wall to practice darts!" Draco argued back as he tugged Luna's bag back against her side, "or my father, she'll tell father!"

"You've earned it," Blaise laughed as he walked in ahead of them.

"I bloody well have not."

Holding open the door for Luna to scurry through, he wrinkled his nose at her wink, and followed. He would have found a seat had Luna not stopped right then, and wondering if Professor Flitwick was there for him to greet, he peered over her shoulder.

Blaise was pointing his wand at a rat on Professor Flitwick's desk.


	14. Peter Pettigrew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update- Thank you so much for the kudos and reads. If anyone finds grammar/spelling mistakes, please comment ‘cuz “no beta we die like women”!

"Call me mad," Blaise bit out his words, "but that's still a rat."

Silence elapsed. Despite Professor Flitwick's frozen confusion by his bookshelves, his finger still straying off a word he'd chosen, their entire focus was on the rat, and his missing toe.

"Blaise," Draco pronounced, "kill it."

"Regio!"*

Immediately, a stun shot out of Blaise's wand. The rat leaped to the side before emitting a high pitched squeak grating to the ears; yet before it landed on the floor Draco had raised his wand and shouted _Confringo._ The rat screeched and jumped.

The tile caved. Luna jolted to a stand as it approached the doors, screaming a spell, and every single exit in the room slammed closed. She screamed again.

"OPPUNGO!"

The closest desk to Blaise soared through the air. It landed where the rat had stood not a moment before, but the rat had already ran to a close by the wall, which caused the desk to distastefully miss the rat by a hair's width. But the effort was enough for Draco to finally lose the last shred of his patience and fling out his hand.

With a wandless snarl, he snapped the chandelier's hook off the ceiling, which made it crash onto the floor. Using the splinters of wood and glass scattered throughout, he made an immediate wave of magic to sweep over the floor, in which they streaked through the air and landed in sharp edges by the millimeter of the rat's flickering tail.

It ran through the bookshelves, up the books, and leapt towards Luna, who gasped and raised her wand. She raised the shield without a word; Draco felt the magic swirl into life, but the rat had twisted its body mid-air and landed on Luna's hair.

"Sorry," Blaise growled, "Deprimo!" And Luna was sent flying back into the nearest bookshelf.

Draco lashed out his magic with a strangled shout for Luna, turning Luna over the shelf's edge into toppling around the air in levitation, before she, too, reached out with her hands and flung the rat, which was still clinging onto strands of Luna's hair woven between its nails.

"Accio!" Blaise reacted, stress-induced.

The magic washed over the classroom in every direction. The rat scattered around however, between smaller obstacles which leaped and stabilised over its body. As soon as it escaped Draco dragged a series of explosions with his hand and a curse on his mouth to chase its path, popping all books aside as it darted around the corners, until one explosion landed squarely in its middle. It squealed again, but gathered itself once more and sped to the nearest crack in the wall.

Draco _roared._

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

"Bombarda!" Luna shrilled helplessly immediately afterwards.

"Stupefy!" Blaise sent a stunner last, but it jumped right into the crack, and disappeared.

The wall shattered into pieces.

They stared blankly at the hole in the wall, and for a long time, there was nothing but harsh gasps of air from all three.

_Homenum Revelio_, Draco whispered, but nothing came up.

"Damn it!" Blaise kicked the nearest chair. "Fuck, fuck, Luna, I'm so sorry."

"I'm fine." She smiled

"No, no. Shite. You're not fine. Your arm is bleeding, Luna."

"You did it very gently," she assured, standing to her feet and patting Blaise's head, "it was like a small hurricane."

Blaise opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted.

"Students," they startled and turned to face a red-faced professor Flitwick, "while I understand there had been a need to demonstrate your ever-growing spell-work, it did not necessarily mean the destruction of my classroom. What was so evil about that rat, you had to use an Unforgivable?"

The students weren't able to meet his gaze, nor each other's, realising that a professor had been watching the entire exchange washing down their faces in doom rather than elation. Aside from the strange fluctuation of magic Draco Malfoy seemed to pull off in a second, his spine stiffening even further, the students didn't make to move. Draco stepped forward, silently, looking back into Professor Flitwick's glare in equal measure.

"That was me, professor." Draco raised both of his hands in surrender.

"I'm asking," Professor Flitwick spat as he flicked the book back into place, "why!"

Draco glanced at Luna, who in turn nodded, and when Blaise was asked, he mouthed back Black.

"We thought he was Sirius Black, professor." Draco said obediently.

Professor Flitwick stared at them in silence. They didn't fidget, although Luna turned to stare at the hole in the wall in regret. Enough silence passed for Luna to observe every possible reconstruction to the wall which could be done.

They waited.

"Plausible, but unnecessary." Professor Flitwick decided. Draco lowered his arms.

"We had a theory, professor. A guess. We didn't think the matter would be as important to any professor and that we'd be misjudged for an imaginative stretch of nosiness. If I had proposed that Sirius Black is an animagus, would you have believed me?"

"With ample reason, anything could have been a possibility to me. But an unforgivable, Draco Malfoy, is something which can lock you behind the cells of Azkaban. The fact that you can cast the spell, even, should be impossible at your age. This requires a measure," Professor Flitwick hesitated, "that goes beyond a simple wand-taking. Your magic will be traced, guarded, and suppressed."

Draco rubbed a piece of brick between his fingers. He seemed to stall, but in the end, smiled at his professor's concerned expression.

"Luna and Blaise won't say a word, professor. Will you?"

"I didn't see anything." Luna affirmed.

Professor Flitwick stared at Luna as though he was seeing her anew. Perhaps he was, as Luna was most known for her incomprehensible speech and actions. Draco observed the professor's assessment in turn, realising the man was sharper than his first impression. (Flitwick was the best dueler, charms caster, and professor of charms. He was better than Milanda Quento, who was held the position prior to Flitwick, and was known to have won a duel against Ioan Rye Illian, their current Professor of Duelling at Durmstrang.)

"I cannot leave this matter unattended. Detention for the rest of the year." Flitwick announced, "and I will be requesting your mother's presence personally."

Draco paused.

"Could you please write her I did it out of a sudden lapse in judgement, professor? Aside from the facts, of course."

Professor Flitwick seemed to consider as he stared at the wall, then nodded.

"Very well."

"Thank you, professor."

Draco nodded his head politely, which Blaise and Luna copied. Professor Flitwick looked at them all in turn, slightly offset by their formalities yet still upset, and began to wave his wand. They filed out of the room.

...

Narcissa closed the Floo.

"How daring of him to decide a participation in war."

VIvian had been silent the entire time Narcissa talked to Flitwick, standing by the stairs. Their first personal tea-time after two and three months had been cut close with Mr. Flitwick's sudden request, but overhearing their entire conversation from not a few meters away, Vivian felt a cold settle over her stomach at the mention of an Avada Kedavra.

"Isn't this what you wished for?" Narcissa said.

"Surprisingly," Vivian snapped as she moved to sit opposite Narcissa, "no."

Narcissa read over Professor Flitwick's description of Draco's excuse, deciding: "He's not choosing a side, but is willing to participate. You must understand, now, that as a mother I've to respect my son's choices yet worry at the same time."

"You seem to be under the impression I haven't raised him for seven years."

Tease's Trays shook as the wind blew. Vivian pressed the soles of her foot into the wooden tiles, and as if to respond, the building shivered to a standstill. The only fireplace in the first floor spat a gust of dust, then resumed its crackling.

"They've killed another one in Britain. The reports are heading into the Aurors' division, and coming out with a blank check. So where do their checks go, and who doesn't file the reports? That's the question Draco has to answer if he doesn't want to beg for his life at the end of a stranger's wand."

Narcissa folded the letter away.

"Who died?"

Vivian stared out at the street.

"Gtrivanka, Hillstray, Camille, and Fordham. Monsieur Chartres was reported missing from his house on May 21st, then appeared on British soil this week. On June 1st he visited Knockturn Alley. Came into contact with someone we haven't tracked down yet. June 2nd, he was sighted leaving a bar in Knockturn Alley, but went missing afterwards between the path from the bar to his lodgings. His ears and eye were found in the drain."

Narcissa stopped drinking her tea. She instead turned back the pastries the waiter was about to serve to package, as their order had been placed not a minute ago.

"His eyes and ears?"

"Chartres is...was the bastard of mankind, but had more social outings than any of us could manage, so he knew more gossips. His eyes and ears, well, someone must have found his knowledge as painful a thorn in the side as I did. Catherine's looking into why he went to Knockturn. The answer to his death lies there."

They sat in silence, then, watching the rain wash over France's greater landmark.

"Where is he now?" Narcissa whispered as she looked out the window.

"A run-down house, far from Hogwarts, I assure you, not in British soil. He's been sustaining himself by the blood of purebloods. Fordham was," she hesitated, "a likely coincidence."

"And Lucius?"

Vivian pressed her lips together as she sat back.

"Your husband cannot simply declare himself unaffiliated. He has the mark of Death Eaters, Black, but your son does not."

"Is everything becoming the war you predicted before me, more than a decade past?" Narcissa's eyes flashed against the fire.

"...Well, your son's not dead yet, is he?"

...

_3rd June, 1994_

Luna, Blaise, and Draco rushed down the halls. Their next class was completely ignored, which was sure to land them all in detention, but between the importance of a murderer lose at Hogwarts' grounds and their classes, the choice was obvious. Their entire magic had sweeping across the corridors since Draco startled out of bed from Luna's yelling from the ring, about how Peter Pettigrew had been the small pulse against her skin the entire time she'd been in Hogwarts. Their magic had clashed against each other before she could begin apologising for not noticing earlier, searching in a clash of morning showers and birds' ruffling.

"Can you feel it?" Blaise rushed out.

"No. I can barely reach beyond the castle's walls. There's too many contrasting magic signatures, and hereditary magic can only last so long."

Draco stopped, placed his hands on his knees, and panted.

"Then he's outside." Luna whispered.

"Fuck." Blaise slumped against the nearest wall, and rolled his shoulders.

"Wait, wait, the map. Our map. Where is it?"

"Where did I put it, you mean. I gave it to you!"

"Right." Draco mumbled.

"I'll get it. You and Luna should move outside, towards the Quidditch fields. You're less likely to be caught by the stands."

"We'll see if we can get ahold of some brooms." Draco held Luna by her elbow.

They sprinted out of Hogwarts startling a few students as they swept past. While Hogwarts wasn't as free as Durmstrang in the amount of lessons a student could control, the entire system was made to leave a few hours of alternating freedom from house to house. A Ravenclaw and Slytherin, however, weren't meant to be rushing out of Hogwarts' grounds.

"Nowhere. That can't be. An animagus takes as much magic to maintain than an average transfiguration." Draco heaved.

"Have you slacked off your nightly exercises?"

"This really isn't the time," Draco muttered as a twinge flashed across his magic. He straightened, facing North. "The Willow."

"Oh." Luna breathed out.

They took down the fields, running towards the tree. Vaguely, Draco wondered how Blaise would find them, if at all. Their shoes were soon muddied, clothes creased, and sweat was beading down their necks before they reached the Whomping Willow. Luna immediately rushed for a branch.

"What are you doing?"

"Unlike you," Luna said as she stalked forward, "I've been listening to people."

She stabbed a knot of the tree, which stalled its restless shake. She darted underneath the tree, which Draco followed.

"You're telling me people know this place?" He asked incredulously.

"You're telling me you haven't wondered _where_ Professor Lupin went missing for a week, not why?" Luna shot back.

Following her trail of straw-gold hair, he jumped out after her into the Shrieking Shack.

"Ok, I admit, I should've."

"He's not here." Luna turned on her heels ignoring Draco's awed eyes on the Shack's rather neat room, and rushed to climb out.

"For fuck's sake," Draco rolled his eyes, and ran after her.

"Can't you sense anything? Nothing at all?"

"Luna," Draco shouted from her feet as they climbed back up the muddy rabbit-hole, "if I'd been certain that rat was Peter Pettigrew I would've paid attention. But I was too busy attacking, if you remember, and my magic can't cover the entire Hogwarts grounds!"

"I'll take the East." Was all he received in return, and Luna disappeared down the hill.

Draco obediently turned West of Hogwarts' north grounds, towards Hagrid's hut and the Forbidden Forest beyond. He didn't know whether the rat would've dared to visit such a place when the Forbidden Forest hosted Voldemort not two years past.

In fact, he revisited his thoughts, it would make more sense for Peter Pettigrew to seek Voldemort's help if his and Sirius Black's situations were reversed. If Peter Pettigrew had been waiting for Voldemort's return, Draco huffed out in realisation, it would make more sense for him to seek Voldemort's hideout. To contact someone who'd know Voldemort. And, if possible, to seek refuge in the most animal-infested place until the contact could be established.

"Hiding a tree in the forest or something," Draco muttered, "a sheep with wolves and rats with holes."

When Draco reached Hagrid's hut, he didn't knock on the door. Instead minding his way around the stone wall, he came to a staggering halt and sat against the wall. Slowly adjusting his breathing, he closed his eyes, and willed his hereditary magic to respond.

"Come on, come on," Draco clenched the grass, "where are you."

A pulse.

He heard a pulse.

Pointing his wand at his palm, Draco raised both in the general direction of a far patch of grass.

"Accio Peter Pettigrew."

There was a squeak, and a dark brown, squealing rat flew into his palm. Before it could even scurry to another shady location, Draco sent a silent stun, and the mouse fell limp in his hands.

"Luna?" He whispered into his ring.

"Draco. You found it?" Luna panted breathlessly over.

"Yes."

"Morgana," Luna laughed in exhaustion, "where are you?"

"Don't bother finding a box. Find Blaise and Susan. I need to get this to Mr. Scrimgeour. We'll need the Floo. Know anyone?"

Draco dusted his robes off, glanced at Hagrid's empty window, and strode away.

"Mr. Scrimgeour. Are you sure? He's a stickler for the rules."

"We've been acquainted before, it'll be easier to talk to him than a complete stranger. Do you think Professor Flitwick would agree, or do you think he'll be calling for Dumbledore instead?"

"Dumbledore." Luna replied easily.

"But he kept my spellwork a secret."

"He might be telling someone tomorrow. Or the day after. We'd never know."

"Try asking him."

"With what cause?"

Draco glanced at the dementors which still presided over their lower banks.

"We need at least one professor for cooperation."

Luna was silent on the other end for some time.

"I'll talk to him."

Draco sighed into his right fist, glanced at the rat in his other fist, and continued to walk up to the castle.

...

"I met him through a meeting, the Magical Division of MACUSA in Langley. I'll be able to talk to him better than you." Susan said as they marched up to Professor Flitwick's classroom.

"Langley? No wonder, France dislikes being in the same room as Britain. Especially on American soil."

"But you should have a failsafe, just in case. Mr. Scrimgeour is impartial, even to children, but as the Head Auror, he'll be requesting full procedures and evidence. If the evidence is so much as unbelievable as that," Susan pointed to the rat, "he may reason the appearance of Sirius Black to testify. If that happens, and you don't know where he is, the case may as well be considered ongoing rather than closed."

"There's no better option than Mr. Scrimgeour, Susan. He's in the right position, apart from Dumbledore's lot, and in odds against the Minister. He's the only neutral party in the whole of British Ministry right now, who can actually get things done. Percy's but an intern, you know this." Draco rambled as he knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

"Professor Flitwick," Luna intervened as she pushed her way through Draco and Susan's huddled whispers, "I'm afraid we need your help." She glanced at the broken wall, still under repair, and smiled back.

"It hasn't been a day." Professor Flitwick frowned.

Truly, only 17 hours had passed since they destroyed Professor Flitwick's wall last evening.

"We're not here to ruin anything, Professor. We're here to talk. To give you a better reason for breaking your wall." Blaise waved vaguely in the direction of the wall which was still magically stitching itself.

Professor Flitwick's eyes hovered over Draco's fists, then the identical ring on Luna's hand.

"We just need to use your fireplace, and for you to stand in as our guardian when asked."

Professor Flitwick was an old person, who'd spent the prime of his life in safer waters. He would have joined the Aurors had it not been for the discrimination and, what he could imagine, an upcoming war against workplace solitude (or the Ministry itself) more often mistaken as a goblin, and hence would've received no respect from the better purebloods who visited the place. Sometimes, he cursed his ability to read micro-expressions.

So the safer waters, in what limited choice society could offer, was the dueling competition. A place where he could be as savage as he wanted to be, a place where harming another was legal, a place where his abilities could be proven. But watching the children before him, ignorant with nothing but passion burning through their veins, he wondered if he'd simply given up.

Filius Flitwick wasn't stupid, he knew the rat in Draco's grasp was an animagus. He could sense the magic better than the children who'd caught it, the core of a wizard which blazed. As a half-blood of goblin descent, if he concentrated, he could measure the intake of magic a witch or wizard could magic, which was to say, he could measure the amount of magic one's core could take.

And that rat, he knew, had a weaker core than most humans but stronger than an animal.

"Who will you be talking to?" He asked out of necessity.

The students glanced at each other before coming to an agreement, with Draco at their forefront, Filius noted, as he made to speak.

"Mr. Scrimgeour, professor." Draco replied.

Filius Flitwick could see the entire story unravelling.

"That rat," he paused, "isn't Sirius Black, is it?"

Draco looked surprised the most, while Luna simply narrowed her eyes. The other Hufflepuff and Slytherin, however, only took on amused looks.

"Why, professor," Draco exclaimed too light-heartedly, "I'd have thought you were Headmaster Dumbledore by the way you guessed!"

Ah, Filius thought, there lay the problem.

"I'm no Dumbledore, unfortunately. I've only been in Hogwarts enough to understand the importance of one Harry Potter."

This time, it was only Draco and Luna who seemed to communicate out of the corner of their eyes.

"If Harry Potter wants a guardian who could possibly go against Dumbledore's wishes, would you agree, Professor?"

Filius Flitwick nodded.

"Then, this is Peter Pettigrew. Animagus, aide of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, traitor to the House of Potter, and ex-friend of Sirius Black." Draco began, "we are presuming the rat, in the case of his missing toe and the similarity found in Peter Pettigrew's only finger found at the past site of event, is the evidence to figuring out Sirius Black's innocence despite small and unlikely. He is, after all, a madman at this point, having spent years amongst Dementors. If you could assist in the revelation, and please do not wake him from the immobilus and sleeping charm I've placed, Sirius Black might likely be proven a better guardian for Harry Potter."

There was silence, before professor Flitwick answered.

"What I do not understand, then, is how the rat managed to survive."

"He found a place with the Weasleys. He was their pet for several years, passed down from one brother to another. But now that you've raised the question, I'm beginning to question who helped him become a pet. Selling a magical creature requires an official registration, a shopkeeper, and someone willing to sell the pet to the shopkeeper. Nonetheless a pet to the Weasleys. Do you reckon Mr. Scrimgeour could help with this?"

"May I?"

Draco levitated the rat to professor Flitwick's open palms.

"Yes. Yes, he should be able to. Which brother was it, do you remember?" The professor continued to ask as he handed the rat back.

"No. I haven't heard that far."

"Percy, I think." Luna interrupted.

"Very well."

Professor Flitwick gestured for them all to enter his office as he waddled down a pile of textbooks. There wasn't much in his office but a bed, a messy table, and an even messier bookshelf, but the fireplace was ready and seemed frequently used.

"You'll all be coming along as witnesses. Memories might be reviewed. Veritaserum, even. If you are unwilling, you should remain."

"I'll stay back," Blaise volunteered.

Draco, Luna, and Susan huddled into the fireplace with Flitwick. Draco sent Blaise a questioning raise of a brow, to which Blaise simply shrugged. Even as they moved, Draco had to tower over his Charms professor, angling his body along the rectangular rocks.

"Office of Auror Reports and Operations!" Flitwick shouted.

...

By the time they arrived at the unusually crowded office of Mr. Scrimgeour, a blond, round man was herding people out of the door with an unending stream of disgruntled noises. He turned to look at the appearance of three children and Flitwick, sighed, and rudely gestured to them with a fling of his arm.

"Why are you here?" He asked gruffly.

"Good evening, Minister. I'm afraid I need to speak to Mr. Scrimgeour, alone, if possible." Professor Flitwick replied.

"This isn't a playground. If you need to discipline someone, I suggest you ask your headmaster. The Auror office isn't for people who've lost their way."

"I must speak to Mr. Scrimgeour." Flitwick repeated.

"Mr. Scrimgeour," the man parroted, "is out of his office doing necessary fieldwork. He won't have time to listen to your complaints about the messes children make."

"It is a matter of importance."

"I don't see how three children can be more important than the murder of our previous Minister Millicent Bagnold." Minister Fudge snapped.

Draco, startled, rushed forward.

"Ms. Bagnold was murdered? When?"

"That's not for you to know, child."

"Please. My Aunt knows her. She'll be devastated."

Cornelius Fudge looked closely at the pale boy, with hair nearing white than blond, and eyes of stormy grey. When he realised the boy was Lucius Malfoy's child, he wavered, and ultimately ceased to a comforting voice.

"She was murdered this morning. Now, excuse me. I have places to be. For the love of Merlin, if only Bertha was here..."

Draco turned to look at Luna and Susan, who stared back at him with similar bewilderment. Although, he glanced at Luna before turning to Susan to find a solution, Luna looked more resigned.

"While it is a regretful occasion, Peter Pettigrew can run faster than any of us can catch. I've tried, believe me, I've even tried the killing curse. So tell me, Susan, is your aunt available? She is Amelia Bones, council-member of the Wizengamot, is she not?"

Susan's eyes snapped up when Draco shook her wrist.

"Yes," she said, still reeling from the news, "yes, I know where her office is. Follow me."

Ignoring professor Flitwick, who silently shadowed them in short bounds from the rear, they rushed down the Auror Department in a flurry of robes. None of the adults paused to stare at the sight, as they, too, were all in a flurry of movement. They poured down a staircase, and crossed a large hall Draco thought was underground, before coming to great, iron doors.

"This is the department of Disciplinary Hearings and Cases. Her office is across the Wizengamot council hall, but she works here going through cases most of the time. You need to be silent."

With the outpour of words, in short, raspy breaths, Susan pushed the door open.

It lead to a completely different scene, as each wall was made of embellished wood, dark and black in color. The magic was colder than the Auror's office, frigid in its reach. Susan started down the corridor, leaving Draco and Luna to pick up their paces. No-one looked up from their papers, no-one talked. If it hadn't been for Susan's sure steps, Draco would have been reluctant to ask anyone who leaned or sat in those mahogany desks for help.

After going up another staircase, and ignoring the wide reception room which seemed to be decorated with ancient artifacts, they rushed down the left-most corridor, until, with another small flight of stairs, they reached a gold-lettered door saying Amelia Bones.

Susan cleared her voice.

"Aunt Amelia?"

She knocked on the door, and waited.

When the door opened, it was to a warmer sight, with the fireplace crackling behind her and books piled to the ceiling. A woman, strict-looking but with a smile's crease around her eyes, with the most red lipstick Draco had seen on any woman, a hat that seemed to be as tall as her face, leaned over them.

"Susan! What are you doing here?"

"Aunt Amelia, I have something really important to talk to you about," Susan rushed out over her aunt's snapping words while leaning forward to whisper in her ear, "it's about Sirius Black."

Amelia Bones' eyes, sharper than what children could manage but nonetheless soft, flickered over their flushed faces, until it landed on Professor Flitwick's rasping voice behind them as he wiped his sweat with a handkerchief.

"Professor Flitwick!" She nearly shouted in surprise, "I must offer you a seat. Come in, children, I can't leave your professor unattended."

Her door opened wider. A flash of satisfaction sprinted by Draco's eyes as he stumbled towards the nearest chair. He didn't sit, waiting for Professor Flitwick to be attended with tea, and when he was, seated across Ms. Bagnold, he sat on the wooden chair lined against the wall.

"I must thank you, professor, for indulging in these children's safety. I would've sent them straight back to school had it not been for the fact you were supervising them."

"Ah, it was necessary, Amelia. Hear them out, hear them out." The professor waved his hand, yet to catch his breath.

Amelia Bagnold's eyes flickered to them, and settled on Susan.

"Talk." She ordered.

"The rat is Peter Pettigrew." Susan announced.

The room's inhabitants paused. Draco lurched from his seat.

"Wait. Let me explain, please. There's more to the story than Peter Pettigrew's animagus. We've realised, after Sirius Black was found headed for Hogwarts and the dementors took over the grounds, that his recent attack on Ron Weasley, a student of our school in Gryffindor, was unjustified."

Draco waited until everyone had settled back into their seats, their eyes on his, listening to his every word as a clock ticked silently in the background.

"Many of our mothers knew how close Sirius Black had been to the Potter's, and through several confirmations, we had a theory Sirius Black was an animagus. Not only was the theory proven when my friend, Blaise, saw a black dog on the Quidditch field when Harry Potter was attacked by dementors, I saw the dog around several times, especially when dementors were near."

Draco's eyes roamed over Professor Flitwick, who nodded an encouragement as he sipped his tea.

"By the time we realised Sirius Black could have been attacking Ron Weasley's pet, when compared to the last missing report of Peter Pettigrew and his finger, we found the rat to be missing a finger, too."

Professor Flitwick reached for a biscuit.

"So it doesn't take much to conclude, from there, that both could be unregistered animagus'?" Amelia Bones asked.

"Yes." Draco said, eyes glued to the butter biscuit. He thanked professor Flitwick when he passed the bowl over, and blinked his eyes at Luna for her to answer what questions might remain. The biscuits, he mildly recognised, was rather good.

"You realise the only evidence you can offer is a rat's missing toe?" 

"There's another," Luna spoke up. She pulled out a wand, pointed it at the rat, and casted: "Accio Peter Pettigrew."

The rat flew into her awaiting hands. Amelia Bones started.

"Very well. _Homorphus._"

The rat was startled awake, but it grew. Slowly, disgustingly, its red-brown hair turned into longer strands which sat on a near-bald head, its paws turned longer into thin bones, and its legs, most grotesque of all, elongated into pale, hairy meat which was soon covered with a paired summoning of ragged clothes. Draco nearly dropped the bowl, but stood instead to move against the door, shoving it back into professor Flitwick's hands.

Amelia Bones, a smart woman indeed, immediately raised the wards of her office.

"Do not move, Peter Pettigrew, or you will be dead."

The man crawled, rushed towards the nearest corner he could find, and cowered.

"Oh, Amelia! Amelia, it's been such a while." The rat paled as he took in the situation. "I can explain, let me explain. There's a misunderstanding here, somewhere, you must hear me out!"

"You know each other?" Draco asked as he dropped all formalities. His wand was levelled at Peter's face, even as he stood directly against the exit.

"We've met." Ms. Bones concluded.

Luna rushed to Susan, and tugged her closer to professor Flitwick, who had long pulled out his wand.

"Amelia, don't you remember me? Nice, good Peter, yes? Peter, friend of James Potter, you must remember indeed! Why am I here, Amelia? Why am I here?"

"I've thought there was nothing to be learnt from children," Amelia Bones said as she cornered the man by several steps, "but I've been proven wrong."

"What children? You can't trust children, Amelia, you know how children are! Liars, the lot of them, liars! I'm innocent, you must let me go, why am I here, Amelia, let your poor friend-"

"_Silencio. __Stupefy. __Incarcerous._ Friend, Peter? We're barely acquaintances. To know you're alive, however, can only mean so many things but one certainty. Sirius Black hadn't been lying about his innocence." Amelia Bones levelled herself to Peter Pettigrew's wide, frozen eyes, "and you have something to admit."

"Do you have Veritaserum, by any chance?"

Amelia turned to Draco, who was sitting against the door, wand still pointed at the man.

"I believe it's time for you to return to class." She announced, not answering his question.

Draco jumped up, startled.

"What?"

"Thank you for bringing him here," Amelia Bones continued, "but you all are students, who has less than more time to watch a rat being tried on court. I have him bound, here, and will call a few of my acquaintances to explain the situation. Aside from Professor Flitwick, who can provide me a few testimonies and memories, I suggest you all serve your detentions well."

Behind her aunt, Susan knocked her head on the couch's arm.

"Susan," Amelia Bones turned to her niece, "I will have a word with you later. Take your friends back to Hogwarts."

Luna shook her head at Draco, and he quelled.

"It was nice making your acquaintance, Ms. Bones." He sighed, slightly sour that he couldn't watch Peter Pettigrew's torment.

Amelia Bones stared down at, what was obviously Lucius Malfoy's child, a child of intelligence and strangely, a well trained instinct. Furthermore, she could sense nothing from him, but a slight weight to his magic which settled thinly over the room.

He was competent, if anything, and she wondered how different he could be from his father if Susan had taken a liking to a friend so much as to introduce him to her, even if Lovegood's daughter was as unexpected.

"Of course, Draco Malfoy." She returned.

* An Area-suppressing spell, which pushes everything within a certain radius out with a strong impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have like, a references page + author's notes which has all the inspiration and omitted parts on which I haven't published. I was going to add it anyways since there's a detailed layout of Durmstrang, but the problem is: now or later?
> 
> Update: Later it is! Thank you for reading.


	15. Hogwarts

The first bedtime story he remembers from his childhood, was one of Aunt Vivian's experiences in the orphanage.

"I was the youngest, but the most mature." She whispered while stroking his head, "not mature physically or mentally, but capable of reading instructions, listening to the adults, and dissecting situations faster than the results. So when the orphanage fell to dire straits, I went to work. I begged for food on the streets, visited charities as the representative, and fought for second-hand clothes from home to home. There was a crowd of children waiting for me back at the orphanage, and you'll never understand, Draco, what a first-born, a leader, a mother and father carries on their shoulders. Not until you're older."

He thought he was seeing a glimpse of it, now, as his friends crowded him from the fireplace, Susan and Luna pushed to a side.

"Draco," Hermione Granger said as she tugged a boy with round glasses and a taller one with a mop of red hair forward, "what happened."

Blaise, Pansy, Cedric, Fred, George, Draco counted, Hermione, Boy-Who-Lived, Weasley Six.

"Eight is two too many." Luna mumbled.

"Kreacher," Draco called, ignoring them all. Susan and Luna turned to him as though he'd gone mad.

The elf popped silently into existence, and by that Draco assumed Tea already sank her teeth into the poor thing, which was better dressed but tired, dark circles now blue.

"Amelia Bagnold, Congresswoman of Wizengamot, might be requesting the presence of Sirius Black. Confirm Sirius Black's location first, then tell Ms. Amelia Bagnold you're willing to bring Sirius Black to her if she needs. If she says yes, tell Sirius Black I've established a political contact like I've promised, and that his case will be reopened as long as he behaves himself. Then bring Sirius Black to Amelia Bagnold. If she says no, then go inform Sirius Black the same thing, but don't bring him to her. Do you understand?"

Kreacher looked delighted to be forcing Sirius Black into something when he first began talking, but grew dismayed the more his words registered. He pulled on his ears, whining.

"Kreacher, please. Do this for me, and you'll never have to see Sirius Black again." Draco reached out to gently grasp Kreacher's elbow. He pushed in a small bush's worth of magic, which made Kreacher at least, the slightest bit, healthier.

"Yes, master Draco." Kreacher bowed, his nose nearly touching the ground in half-delight and conflicting annoyance, before winking out of presence.

"Wow," Susan whistled, "your family allowed you to support an elf? What property did you offer?"

"A Malfoy is also considered a member of the Sacred-Twenty-Eight, Susan. We've enough properties to offer an elf." Draco rolled his eyes.

"I feel completely neglected." Blaise chimed in. They ignored him.

"Yes, but an elf? You're barely 13."

"I tried warning him, but Draco's a Wrackspurt itself," Luna added, "I mean, by the time I did warn him, it was already too late. Actually, I'm warning him now."

Harry Potter, because the scar couldn't be more pronounced, stepped forward to talk.

"Excuse you all," Blaise slapped Draco's back, "I'm trying to tell you three all the professors assigned you detention for the week. So, when I say you've only got this evening to make farewells with this group of children, I mean it."

There was a gaggle of protests from the aforementioned children. A ginger-haired boy with glaring eyes, Draco assumed he was a Weasley considering Fred and George's immediate reaction to pin him in his place by his shoulders, opened his mouth to shout.

"What in the realm of nine hells was your excuse to make them all assign detention!" Susan screamed before the first syllable left Weasley-boy, latching onto Blaise's shoulders.

"What could be more suitable than to say Professor Flitwick had to pick you guys up from the Ministry of Magic?" Blaise replied, Draco's arched glance completely missing him by a fool's height.

"The Ministry? Pick us up!" Susan yelled as she shook Blaise back and forth, "is your brain so lacking that you couldn't say Professor Flitwick took us to the Ministry of Magic due to a mis-pronounced spellwork that affected us all!"

Blaise shrugged, dislodging her hands in the process.

"Professor Flitwick isn't that good of a liar."

"Woah, Susan," Draco grabbed her shoulder as she moved, "we're all tired, and Blaise's excuse is vague enough for you to settle a suitable excuse with Professor Flitwick. Blaise, Susan, both of you should stay back to confirm our alibis with Professor Flitwick. Once done, tell us tomorrow morning. Hermione, please bring your friends back to the Gryffindor common room. It's nearing midnight, the twins will tell you what happened once I give them a brief explanation. Goodnight, Luna. Pansy, Fred, George, follow me."

Draco fell into a tiring chatter with Pansy, a clear dismissal as he moved out of the classroom.

Hermione pressed her lips together, and the two boys around her glared at his back in possible hatred. With Luna's singular agreement of a hum, Hermione followed her away. Blaise and Susan glanced at each other. No matter how frequently they've met as a group, Susan was more prone to discussing politics with Draco, while Blaise added to the sharp minds of Fred, George, and Cedric. Luna and Pansy taught Hermione unwritten societies of the Wizarding World. That was how it'd been.

"-how I caught Peter Pettigrew." Draco finished his first round of explanation.

"Are you hurt?" Pansy asked as she lifted the hem of his sleeves, "Did Peter Pettigrew fight back?"

"When I casted the Accio, I immediately stunned him. We were planning to turn him in to Mr. Scrimgeour, but as he was absent, had to turn to Susan's aunt."

Pansy paled. "She's not a neutral party."

"She won't be reporting to Dumbledore unless asked, that's the important factor. Unless he sends her a letter, and I highly doubt she can reply as of the moment, she won't be tripping over herself. A steadfast, capable person is better than none at all. Besides, we were able to convince her in record time because she was _Susan's aunt._ She practically raised Susan after Mr. and Mrs. Bones were murdered last war."

"Why couldn't you have gone to Mr. Crouch? Percy sings praises of him." George chimed in.

"He is a talented politician, I admit," Draco scoffed, "hates Dumbledore, doesn't fall for the Boy-Who-Lived propaganda, hated Voldemort even more. But his son was close to the Lestranges'. Family is family, but a spoken family is a political foe."

"A spoken family?"

"A family of a politician has the right to hold political opinions, parties, and attend meetings to support the politician in question. But if the politician's family member has an outspoken political stance, for example, your family advocating for Dumbledore while Percy sits on the fence," Pansy smiled sadly at Fred and George, "Percy's chances of promotion decreases even more. Moreover when he doesn't have a family or acquaintance who can host a party or string up people to his advantage."

Draco and Pansy watched the twins as they struggled to understand. After some silence, Draco continued.

"Sirius Black will, as long as Peter Pettigrew is fed Veritaserum, be freed. And more likely at as Potter's illegal guardian unless Dumbledore allows."

"So," Fred said slowly, "Dumbledore wants to be the legal guardian of Harry Potter because he wants power? And Sirius Black will have to fight for it?"

"Dumbledore is the Supreme Mugwamp, Chief Warlock, and Headmaster. He doesn't need more power. Harry Potter is his political propaganda. A project, so to speak, to shift the attention of Grindelwald's era to a new era where all evil can be vanquished by just Harry Potter alone. Unless specifically stated in the Potters' wills that Sirius Black is an eligible guardian, he will have to file a lawsuit." Draco sighed.

Fred and George looked lost.

"Think of it this way," Pansy explained with a tired flip of her hands, "when you're about to advertise for your jokes products' idea, you must first make the product. And when the product is effective, and the idea acknowledged, the inventor is praised. Same goes for Dumbledore. He had an idea, and made the product Harry Potter. He then took a past event and proved him effective. Now that everyone acknowledges Harry Potter, the also see Dumbledore, inventor and first-hand handler of Harry Potter."

"And because Harry Potter is a living, breathing project with years ahead of him, Dumbledore's propaganda will last as long as he lives."

"That's politics?" George asked in a twisted frown.

"It benefited people and gave them hope, didn't it? Sacrifice of the few for the many. The existence of Harry Potter as a protective blanket re-invigorated economy. People felt safer to purchase products at the streets, take outings, and discuss politics in a room that's not in their homes facing potential enemies."

The twins frowned down at the corridor.

"Well, this is it. Thank you for accompanying us to Slytherin's dorms. You can head back, now. I'm sure you know more passages to Gryffindor than I've explored."

"That's why you brought them instead of Hermione?" Pansy yawned as she whispered the password, "she wouldn't have been asking politics."

"She will be, I think, sooner or later." Draco rolled his eyes, and gently pushed Pansy's back into the door.

"Good night, twins."

Fred and George Weasley turned to each other, and saw what each didn't want to see.

A better understanding of Percy Weasley.

...

"My Aunt wants you to see something." Susan Bones said as she slid into the chair across Draco and Blaise. The other Slytherins, rather startled, offered her more room out of bewilderment more than politeness. Draco didn't nod, but Susan plowed on. "It's been a terrible trial, but they stuffed him with the liquid. He admitted to all the names he did away with. She wants you to look at this list, and see if you recognise anyone."

"Why?" Draco said as he lifted the list to his nose.

"Because he said, as he served, these names were mentioned by your mother's sister's husband's brothers."

"He had time to scurry off on dates as a pet?" Draco questioned as he flipped through the second sheet.

"Yes. He slept a lot, apparently, in order to be left alone."

"Gtrivanka is the family name of a student in Durmstrang." Draco frowned.

"Durmstrang?" Susan startled. "That's impossible. Why would the Les-, the family of your mother's-sister's-husband be concerned with someone halfway across Europe?"

"A distant relative of theirs moved here, I suppose."

Susan quelled. Draco glanced at her, and smiled knowingly.

"Eager to get something for her, aren't you?"

"You can't blame me, it's the first time she asked me for help. Although I don't know why she expects you to know anything about your mother's-sister's-husband's-brother's well being."

Draco skimmed through the list once more.

"Can I keep this?"

"No."

Draco shoved the letter back into her hands, and flipped his.

"Go away, then."

Susan wrinkled her nose in a sniff with a disgusted downturn mouth, and bounced off.

"Amelia Bones?" An older Slytherin student leaned forward from his seat.

"A singular acquaintance." Draco stabbed the chicken, "and the cause of detention. As a Malfoy, it's easier for Ms. Bones to ask after the family names from those affiliated when conducting a search, probably."

Draco wondered if they thought he had a political stance at all. The older student hummed, and leaned back into his seat.

"You're a suspect?" Pansy cried a few seats down, rather dramatically, "poor Draco!"

"Pansy," Draco blinked slowly, which was equivalent to a roll of his eyes, "if Amelia Bones finds you as important in the matter of family heritage, she will be contacting you soon."

He was rather grateful to Pansy as the students around her broke into laughter. She sat back with her arms crossed, huffing and pouting, even as she snuck a wink in his direction. He snuck one back, and resolved to buying her the French macaroons she'd been demanding.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Draco turned, and came face-to-face with Hermione Granger. She looked more tired than she had been the day before, with grass and twigs sticking out of her hair. It seemed she'd skipped lunch, as her usual boys weren't around either. Draco glanced at Blaise, and Blaise nodded.

"Sure."

Perhaps he shouldn't have agreed so readily, because she hauled him up by his arm, and began to drag him. She hadn't been this confident with others a month ago, Draco mused, but their relationship had progressed to a point he didn't protest her movements or claim his discomfort on the spot. He would have, he knew.

He was dragged out of Hogwarts and towards the Great Lake, but even before they got there, Hermione Granger turned on her heels, and hugged him.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?" Draco repeated in shock.

"We just got back from rescuing Buckbeak out of Harry's insistence," Hermione said as she pulled out her time-turner and jingled it before his eyes, "but there was a letter waiting for him as soon as we got back, a letter from the ministry. Signed by Sirius Black. They'll have to iron some facts out, but Harry's really hopeful. This year's been a hard one to him, you see, and ended on a good note."

"Ah." Draco voiced at a lack of words.

"Apparently, Harry trusts Professor Lupin enough. Professor Lupin validated his letter, because, you know, he was one of the Marauders."

"I had a presumption, not fact." Draco protested even as his mind struggled to catch up to the fact he'd overlooked Lupin's role. Perhaps that was why Luna had fixated on Professor Lupin.

(Actually, Draco thought, that explained why she was keeping such a close eye on the news. She would have suspected Lupin to be an inside confident the less Sirius Black appeared on the news. But the rumours regarding his attempt to kill a student had thrown her off, and when the incident wasn't reported still, she would've redirected her attention to Peter Pettigrew. Which meant, Draco realised in clarity, she figured out Peter Pettigrew's animagus form before him.)

"Anyways. Fred and George told me and Harry and Ron, everything you did. So, they're sending their thanks, too."

"I don't care for their thanks," Draco said as he stepped back and took Hermione in. "You look a fright, but happy. Have you made up with them?"

"Not really." Hermione smiled. Draco gave her a skeptical glance.

"They still can't get over the fact I've been expanding my social circle. We've been rather close, but I've started to understand there's more people out there who's willing to be my friend. People who don't judge at first sight. People like you. So they're struggling to... Accept, let's say, that I'm capable of functioning without them."

"They'd better get used to it," Draco said as he smiled back, "you've most certainly changed from when I first met you. It's already been two months."

"Three, if we consider our very first meeting."

"But you're happy."

"Yes."

"Well," Draco glanced back to the Great Hall, "I'd rather be eating my lunch then."

Hermione stifled a laugh. Hermione was tempted to call Draco warmer than his first impression, but held her tongue. Instead, she hopped up to his arm.

"Oh, I think you can starve a little." Hermione elbowed him in jest as they began to walk back towards the castle.

...

_Dear Aunt Vivian, _Draco wrote and sat back on his chair. He stuffed the parchment under a book, and started anew. Something raw pushed against his occlumency walls, straightening his posture.

_Dear Aunt Vi and Uncle Jay,_

_I was shown a list by Susan Bones, cousin of Amelia Bones, with the names of Voldemort and his targets' as professed by the Lestranges last war, confessed by Peter Pettigrew. Assuming you've meant for me to capture him, I have. But the list involves names I'm familiar with, no matter how Clair must complain of my lack of paperwork, I have been reading them._

_Monsieur Chartres de Barr, Eleonor Gtrivanka, and Castillia Camille were the names on the list._

_Minister Millicent Bagnold's death, if the news hasn't reached you, should be reported next morning. But I believe, in light of Minister Cornelius Fudge's actions as witnessed in the process of handing Peter Pettigrew to Amelia Bagnold's office, it won't be reported as murder._

_I will reach out to Joo-Ha over the holidays. I believe it's safe to assume the four deaths are the Lestranges' doing, which calls into question the involvement of their surviving family members outside imprisonment, and who ordered them in turn. Because, Aunt Vi, it isn't _ _ him _ _._

_As the deaths are fairly new and recent, my purpose of being here will soon be active. I plan to hear, and listen, and only interfere when necessary._

_I am thinking of remaining in Hogwarts for another year, and even then, attending my classes and leaving the castle at most times. The horcruxes Kreacher described to me, and the one in possession, must be located. I'm going to test the most sacred ingredients of the Wizarding World against the one I have, and then resolve to spells. The others will be located, and fixed to position. I wish you to contact Miss Catherine Bluard, as I'd like to request a transfer of personnel._

_I've already sent a letter to mother and father regarding my decision, and I hope you'll be able to convince them it's for the best._

"Calm down," Blaise rolled his eyes from the far corner, "your quill will break if you write too fast."

"It's not that."

"Then?"

When Blaise took his eyes off the book he was reading, he was met with red-rimmed eyes.

Blaise had never seen Draco cry. It was further accurate to say he assumed most of Draco's emotions were fabricated, with the amount of occlumency which possessed his mind, and he assumption was truer than to his liking. Neither had he seen an emotion so strongly expressed as the red flush falling down his cheeks, or the wide glare of his eyes, he didn't know how to react.

But the instant understanding, aside from his lack of reaction, was sufficient. He knew of Draco's attachment to his parents, his desire for recognition from his Aunt, and the manner in which he disappeared every night was, as frequent as it was, common.

Draco preferred curling up on the library's windows when it rained. He enjoyed smuggling tea into the library, and smiled honestly when his cousin (or sister) Luna joined. Sometimes, when Blaise offered to silently support Draco's sudden disappearances in a social event, he smuggled his favourite brand of eclairs into their room in gratitude.

And he valued his family, despite how independent he seemed.

"Your Aunt is the Headmistress of Durmstrang, member of ROEUI, and the strongest person within the Wizarding World. Your mother can dig up Dumbledore from his grave and stab him in eye, find it unsatisfying, and pulverise him. They'll be fine."

"My mother," Draco sniffed, "can slap my Aunt."

Blaise fell silent, gathering some wits to speak, and finally came up with:

"How horrifying."

Draco turned back to the letter with wet laughter, and signed:

_With love, Draco._

...

Hogwarts was an ancient castle. Its magic, sweeping and vast, had grown into a signature of its own, and would have bestowed hereditary magic on the owner of said castle, but there was none. Hereditary magic was, after all, the pure, unfiltered magic most wizards and witches were incapable of processing in full through their cores and out their body, despite the thick saturation which rested over the Wizarding World, which decreased with every torn seam for the muggles to pass through.

Hogwarts, however, had been strange when he first arrived, and was yet a stranger around his shoulders like clinging mud as he climbed up a flight of stairs. The raven of Ravenclaw peered down at his height, which was still smaller than its beak at 165cm.

"What can be made into a cake, sometimes black, sometimes white, and greater than anything on land?"

"The moon."

The raven blinked, turned its head, and blinked with its other eye. The door swung open.

There was a unanimous glare shot from all the Ravenclaws who sat around the fireplace. They were all bent over books, which were scattered from the bookshelf to their feet, and quills and ink pots which filled every spot between. The only path they deigned to leave was a narrow, small road towards the stairs in between books of spaces the size of half a foot.

Draco waved at them, one flimsy swing, as he picked his way across the narrow trail. While it wasn't a secret that Draco had known Luna in France, it wasn't well-known, either. Their vicious glares, he supposed, was due to the fact he'd snuck into the Ravenclaw dormitories more than once and had escaped every time despite their fervent report to Professor Flitwick. This was the first time he'd blatantly crossed the room, however, and he wondered if Professor Flitwick or Snape was willing to let this slide.

"Luna," he said as he knocked on her door, "are you in?"

Luna opened the door immediately.

"Did you bring a carrot for me?" She asked in cheer.

Draco rolled his eyes, and flapped the piece of letter at her nose.

The French Ministry of Magic had limited entries into the country. Many connections in the world of les-autres were closed, and government guarded checkpoints were set up for all passages. It was wise of them, Draco had thought, but it posed a problem when he planned to leave Durmstrang.

"Let me stick it in your book for now." Draco said as he closed the door behind him.

It had taken Luna two years to connect one staple, unmoving wall in her Hogwarts room to Draco's room 21-22 in Durmstrang. The entire process had involved all every physical and inanimate form of magic they could dream of, and in the duration, Luna had to pass the checkpoint between Burton Alley and Glisy by travelling all the way to Kingston within an hour.

He'd never seen Luna as happy as the day the dimension between Hogwarts and Durmstrang finally warped, creating a two-way entrance back and forth.

And she'd been overjoyed when he managed to grab that point of entry in the wall, twisting and compressing it, until it fit into her first year Herbology book.

He watched her stick the letter deep inside the book's page 108 until its words swam around her elbow, settling across her bed in preparedness for a long conversation to come. Ravenclaw had two beds to a room, but no-one wished to be with Luna Lovegood, nonetheless sleeping next to her and her imaginary creatures.

"I already sent her a letter," Luna said as she brought the book to the bed, "since you were never the person to write details. About how we caught Peter Pettigrew, who were informed, and who knows what. I also emphasized on your unwillingness to chase after a Horcrux which is clearly moving around inside Hogwarts like a living being."

Draco scowled and made to open his mouth, but Luna, not looking up from the book, slapped her hand over his mouth, or rather over his nose, and continued.

"Ever since Aunt Vivian lost contact with her friends in Russia, Owen had to permanently remain there. Apparently the attack on Russia's diplomatic headquarters, no matter how spread apart they were, were done by those who claim to be Death Eaters, and not You-Know-Who. They wanted You-Know-Who to leave England, and establish a solid support outside of England in other European countries with less guard against him. But he refused. He wasn't sighted outside of England, nor was he tracked in England back then until three years ago, near Hogwarts."

"That was seven or eight years ago." Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," Luna turned her worried eyes at him, "but they just arrived in England."

Draco collapsed into the pillows behind him.

"They were the people who fled Britain's MoM during the First War, weren't they?"

Luna nodded.

"They're growing in numbers. Not only are the Lestranges moving, there's more from the States."

"So Mr. Mort is more focused on the Boy-Who-Lived." Draco concluded as he rolled around, "but why is he gathering them now? What are they planning with more members? I can only expect a raid at this point in time, but he's so weak."

"Draco," Luna huffed, "you just said the answer. He's weak, so he needs more people. To become stronger."

"I remember the first time I fell in denial: "But what if that bad person's really dead?"" Draco imitated himself in a high-pitched voice, then giggled with Luna for a few seconds before an idea came to mind. "Is there a spell or ritual concerning revivement, strength, or fertility?"

"I don't know. That's more of what British wizards and witches call light magic. I've only learnt to counter Dark magic in Hogwarts, not enact light rituals. Besides, most rituals are considered dark due to its need of sacrifice."

"Thank fuck for Durmstrang's basic-education-only program," Draco groaned into his pillow. "Pit Durmstrang's first-year against Beauxbaton's first year, and Durmstrang will fly through a wall."

"But pit Durmstrang's graduate against a Hogwarts' graduate," the two chorused, "and Beauxbatons will crawl for Hogwarts' mercy."

The fell into a fit of laughter, Draco relishing a conversation that they'd put aside for two weeks. The book's spine turned black, and they both choked back their laughter as Draco wrestled with Luna for the book. With a firm kick to her thigh, she toppled over the bed.

"It's not yours!" She called out from beneath the bed, laughter mixed into every breath.

"But I made it." Draco called back.

He stuck his hand in, page 108 gleaming around his hands as he sunk in his arm and felt around the locked toy box in room 21-22. Grasping a thin wood, he frowned as a twang of string bounced across his fingers.

Draco fell silent.

Slowly, and with exceeding caution, he pulled the object out of the page with wide eyes and a gasp, the page stretching that much impossibly wider, to fit around each curve and lines of the object.

Aunt Vivian had sent him her violin.


	16. Jason Olse

_30th June, 1994_

"Isn't this the display piece in her office?"

Luna sent out a silent hum of agreement.

"Mhm. It's the one she cleans every day. Maybe she wants you to learn?"

"I told her Monsieur Chartres is dead!"

"She never did like him. Perhaps she wants you to celebrate with her."

Draco looked down at the fine craftsmanship, and lamented his future use of the few galleons his mother sent every week on finding a suitable case.

"I'm ignoring her," he decided, "do you have anything else for me to take note of?"

"The International Conference of Wizards is coming up," Luna frowned, "and Mr. Bagman is accompanying Headmaster Dumbledore this year."

"Ludo Bagman's a man worthy of his station. Negotiable, unproblematic, and the right amount of respect. Uncle Jason's been attentive to him, as of recent, as there should be a reason why Dumbledore chose Bagman for the first time, but other than that, it'll be hard to bring to attention something so far-fetched as the Minister of Sports being a Death Eater."

"But Ludo Bagman attended the first prosecution of Death Eaters, and was on the council for Black's retrial several weeks ago. He's from a generation where war criminals were treated like one, and no less. For him to willingly leave Britain after Sirius Black's trial warrants a second notice considering what little bravery he has."

"I've never met the man, and what we know are from reports. It could be luck or recommendation which had him selected, or Dumbledore could be planning to publicise Hogwarts' quidditch. We can't be sure."

"Yes," Luna agreed with lingering discomfort, "but if the reason behind his attendance is sufficient enough-."

"It'll be nothing, Luna." Draco said as he tidied Luna's bed, "it's past twelve."

The next morning, the students' Fall parting spirits were high, as Oliver Wood's acceptance to the Puddlemere's was spread, with Percy Weasley's apprenticeship to Amelia Bones. Percy revealed a side never known to the twins, a minute difference they only knew from their recent conversations: A relaxed mention of his future.

While his previous attempts at communications regarding his future was filled with narcissistic tones of self-portrayal, he was currently talking, quite calmly, to Susan Bones regarding the recent proposals on the malleable limitations of professional business licenses. Fred and George Weasley stood to the side in party hats, congratulatory, but stunned.

Draco approached with a smile. While the change wasn't something he had to take pride in, he did.

"Congratulations, Percy Weasley."

"Ah, Draco. Thank you, in various aspects. Miss Amelia Bones' offer is rarely given."

They smiled, and left. Slytherin green hung from ceiling to floor, as tomorrow was the final feast. With one last greeting exchanged with Susan Bones as he passed the Hufflepuff's, Draco threw a hand on Blaise's shoulder to sit.

"Dumbledore's been smiling at Harry Potter yesterday." Draco froze as soon as he sat, wondering if he heard Blaise correctly. He followed Blaise's gesture to an empty chair at the professor's stage, and looked back.

"Reassuringly?" He managed to ask.

"We're not in Durmstrang, now, are we?"

"What excuse could he possibly come up with?"

"He didn't give an excuse First Year, apparently. Something about bravery and courage, which Slytherin took second."

Draco looked around the dim row of faces.

"And it's to your belief that Dumbledore's going to repeat the event tomorrow?"

"We know Marcus pushed you to be a seeker, as your reputation's on the negative side of proper. General consensus is that you're the kind of person to take no sides only to aggravate a dispute. Your Quidditch victory was...unexpected, truer than a fault. Which is why Dumbledore may be further willing to upend the year's scores. He never gave Slytherin its highlights, only wins to dissuade dissatisfactions."

"All in the name of publicising the Boy-Who-Lived?" Draco repeated dubiously.

"Yes."

...

Jason Olse lived the first 20 years of his life by the port of Oslo, Norway. His father, the 45th Head of the House of Fawley, was a common man with a respectful job, and the sole heir to the name as one of the House of Fawley's last remnants after most lost their lives to Grindelwald's cause. Jason grew on the tales of his father succeeding every tribulations of the War to becoming an unsuspecting member of a society which, had no magic or power to its name but conviction.

As far as he knew, his father had been a believer of his own cause when Gellert Grindelwald made his speech. To reflect such aimed boundless replications of people's expectations, Jason was taught to rearrange his thoughts, his ideals, and dreams into the required frame of others. To speak in the language of another's religion, belief, or culture, to convince not only them but himself, while never losing sight of his own purpose. It was the kind of camouflage which didn't come from physical changes, but mental fortitude.

Hevian Olse as a man wasn't well known. He was sometimes the guitarist on the street, the construction worker by the port's bridge, the barista in the central building. An old man, a young man, a handsome man, an ugly man. A beggar, a business man, a taxi driver, a clown. A man of everywhere and anywhere. Which was why, when his father appeared dead in the field of white snow behind their house in the winter of 1975, Jason was chosen as the House's next leader solely due to his inherited talents for professional disguises at 21 years of age.

The International Confederation of Wizards' Conference took place in the country where the Supreme Mugwump resided. It was to be held in England, within the halls of the British Ministry, where security would be enhanced for the day, and delegates from all around the world would floo in.

It was, therefore, as easy to enter for someone uninvited.

Jason Olse stood still by the nearest wall, sectioned to the delegates of East Asia, and himself in the disguise of the German delegate Albert Aachen. The Germans, fortunately for Jason, hadn't regained their standing within the International Confederation from their participation of les-autres' genocide. While being German wasn't a problem, the representative of said country was a thin subject of discrimination.

And this wasn't Jason's first time, to be standing in the wrong corner in the wrong skin.

"There are lingering threats to the British ministry that should be addressed," Albus Dumbledore continued.

"Now, Albus," another interrupted, "there should be worse news you should be delivering, something which saddens us all. Millicent Bagnold, honoured preceding Minister, and once a great leader to us all, is dead!"

The entire hall broke out in chatters. Jason, blinking the sleep which chased his eyes, roamed his closing gaze over Albus Dumbledore's face. The man looked as though he expected his speech to be interrupted instead of questioning how the representative knew, his wrinkles creasing into satisfaction of being right more than regret to the interruption which came to his mention of war, and as always, Jason wondered when he stopped trying.

"Her cause of death is still being investigated," Dumbledore spoke solemnly, "but we should all pay our respects."

The formal meeting was as stiff and boring as when it first began. The only interesting part of it all had been when five delegates began a shouting match over whether the case of illegal immigrants from the south coast of Italy should be held accountable to France's renewed entry and deportation acts.

"As for the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. I've been asked by our Minister to request Durmstrang's participation."

The representatives of Sweden, Norway, and Finland fell silent. Although Durmstrang accepted students from all over Europe, they were the ones to represent Durmstrang in the International Confederation. France took care of its internal affairs, and the Northern European Union managed its external cooperations. Jason closed his eyes. For its participation, the entirety of Europe's northern countries, with France and Germany's cooperation, would have to agree.

Sometimes, Durmstrang's neutrality on the Treriksröset caused more problems than it should.

"That is not something to be spoken of lightly."

"The Triwizard Tournament's precautions are yet to be set by either Beauxbatons or Hogwarts. Without a guide to how the Tournament will be changed, it will be hard in all our interests to invite Durmstrang to a foreign school, especially a place where two co-exist."

"Unless there are limited numbers."

"Let us not be hasty," Dumbledore spoke, "it was but a request."

The Confederation spoke quietly amongst themselves regardless.

Jason yawned behind a fist posed to set a mood for contemplation, and glanced at the door. The German delegate shouldn't be awake yet, he knew, but sometimes he wondered how things would proceed once the Confederation realises it's an easier task to mimic a witch's or wizard's magic than it is to drink Polyjuice. A commendation for his developed research into the nature of magic should suffice, he imagined, and tilted his head down to yawn a second time.

"We will send word back to the Minister," the French delegate spoke in a heavy accent, "and the Ministers shall decide."

Jason nearly dozed as the meeting drew to a close.

"Already?"

By the time Jason inconspicuously managed to sneak back into the ministry through the stampede of aurors who were herding out the representatives, Vivian had collapsed onto the German delegate's still body, using his stomach as a pillow to prop her head. She glared at him as she asked, as he once walked out of a meeting at the soonest opportunity.

"There's less to talk of when Dumbledore's in attendance. Aren't you getting too comfortable with him?" Jason asked as he immediately began to pull off the tie.

"I've met this unconscious man for the second time. Two meetings are enough to acquaint ourselves, don't you think? I was barely a teenager then this man was first elected to become a delegate, so imagine how fond he could have been of me."

"Of someone who knocked him out? I suppose."

Jason slid the tie around the man's neck. Vivian slowly crawled to a stand, muttering, "you should consider bringing Catherine over for the manipulation of memories, truly. I'm better at reading memories and chucking bits out or in instead of warping a third perspective to a first perspective."

"No amount of warning can break Catherine into an actor. She and I have both agreed she's more likely to erase every person's memory she comes to contact, rather than convincing them of her trust." Jason glanced at Vivian who was drumming her fingers in displeasure of being wrong, "and you're right. They're bringing in Durmstrang. But more than that, Dumbledore attempted to bring up the Death Eaters again, but failed. He must be tracking those coming into England when he suggested a border lockdown."

"He threw around the idea so carelessly?" Vivian asked tiredly.

"Implied, but as France's already began tightening their security, why not England? The Ministry of Defence can't do less than what it's doing now."

"You think Dumbledore will come to terms with Cornelius."

"If I tell you he's eyed me the entire meeting, will that reassure you?"

Vivian closed her eyes in resignation.

"Who is he tracking?"

"That's what Draco has to find out, don't you think?"

...

Slytherin did take the win. By a mere point's difference.

"-to Miss Hermione Granger, for her wisdom which shone at all times."

Those who had been tallying the scores breathed a sigh of relief. Other Slytherins simply frowned, while Draco, stared down Hermione Granger, who'd half risen from her seat with a mumbling protest on her mouth. Not only was he glaring at her attempt, but she'd received half of the Gryffindor's stares from doing so, and Ron Weasley's grip across both of her arms.

"May Hogwarts grieve for its occupants' blindness." Draco whispered to the Slytherins.

A few weakly choked out their laughter.

Far across the Gryffindor table, Harry looked up in surprise at Hermione's compliance. She'd sat as soon as he managed to grab her sleeve, half scared of the following scolding to come. Instead, she was sitting with her mouth open, ready to discuss injustice.

"This isn't something Headmaster Dumbledore can decide to give without rhyme or reason," she was biting out like a woodpecker, "look at the Ravenclaws. Aside from us Gryffindors, who's celebrating? Can't everyone see the entire school doesn't agree with such blatant-."

She paused, closed her mouth, and looked at Harry with an apologetic face.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry shook his head.

"It's fine. It isn't the first time this happened."

"I was going to disapprove."

"Why didn't you?"

Hermione thought, shook her head, and sighed. "I never thought I would say this, Harry, but the Slytherins know better when it comes to social perspectives," she tilted her head towards the Slytherins, "didn't you see? Draco and Pansy were both shaking their heads at me."

Ron frowned. When he first heard of Hermione's association with Draco Malfoy, Harry had to listen to his objections and increased claims of the Malfoy's unreasonable blood-feud against the Weasleys. Considering the fact that Mr. Malfoy had downgraded Mr. Weasley public several times, although it never came to blows, Harry understood.

Then, Harry had bumped right into him at the Great Hall one bright, summer morning, just as the leaves were turning yellow.

His entire robe had flipped when he tripped on the bench. That didn't mean he didn't see Draco Malfoy's pale yellow hair, too pale to be called blond. That didn't mean he missed out on the curve of his smile, the pale grey of his eyes, and the clutch of his fingers around-

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

Beside him, Ron clenched his teeth. Hermione glared at Ron, then turned her attention back.

"Aren't you going to talk to him before he leaves? Today's the last day."

Harry visibly hesitated. Hermione watched his eyes dart to Ron, then back at the Slytherins, before moving to his plate. She sighed, tossed her hair back, and gently placed her foot on Ron's.

"Harry," she began, "Pansy, Luna, Susan and I are having a girls' night today, and apparently Blaise and Draco are holding a party in the abandoned potion's classroom on the third floor." Hermione increased the pressure on Ron's foot. "So why don't you and Ron take this opportunity to thank him, personally, for pulling Sirius out of Azkaban? It's a good topic of conversation to begin with."

When Ron opened his mouth, Hermione lifted her foot, and slammed it down. Ron's shout was muffled behind the bread she already had prepared to shove in his mouth, and did in the guise of offering novelty.

"The abandoned potion's classroom? There aren't anymore potions classrooms aside from Professor Snape's, Hermione."

"There is. In fact, Fred and George are attending too besides a few more Slytherins, to celebrate the end-of-year. I'm sure Draco wouldn't mind if you brought Ron along, if only because Fred and George are there."

_Mmf!_

"See? Ron says yes."

"Yeah, I guess. I should."

"I'll talk to him about it, then." Hermione smiled in satisfaction.

...

Draco was prepared to attend the evening's party. He truly was. Dressed in a loose white shirt and brown pants, and a browner cardigan, as someone who cared about practicality over fashion, it could be said the latter was what he wore for casual events, and needless to say, a party.

If Uncle Jason hadn't been sitting on his bed when he stepped out of the bathroom, that was.

"What the fuck?"

Blaise looked up from his conversation with Uncle Jason, his hands in mid-air, and eyes alight. All Uncle Jason gave him was a nod. He hadn't taken off his grey topcoat, or his Oxford shoes.

"Hey. I'll go ahead." Blaise patted his shoulder, and moved.

By the time the door closed behind him, Draco had grabbed his wand.

"Who are you?"

"Erlnier," Uncle Jason said as gestured at the space before him with a wand in his hand himself, "you should have placed silencing charms before asking that question. If your friend had heard you ask, he would have doubted my credibility, nonetheless your safety. I've taught your rudimentary practices better."

"There are runes on my bed," Draco shot back, "and they've worked since you sat there."

Uncle Jason looked vaguely surprised as he ran his hands behind the headboard.

"Sound, intentions, conversations, volume. Well done. Is there a reason why you decided to set these up?"

"Blaise tore through the silencing charms I casted on the curtains. And they were meant to be permanent."

"Your friend is very capable, I agree."

"What were you talking about?"

Uncle Jason hummed. "Your friend is very used to the peculiar things which happens around you, like you going noticeably missing during the nights at Durmstrang, or knowing spells you weren't meant to know. He's been hearing you mutter through your essays in three two different languages, breaking rules to your liking, and very eager to prove what he knew about you to me when I appeared on your bed."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"And?"

"The decision's up to you. Did you get Vivian's present?"

"The violin? Just last night. Why?"

Uncle Jason frowned.

"Did you give it a check?"

"Yes. No. No, I didn't."

"It should be instinctual by now, Erlnier," Jason said as he stood, "to give a gentle push of your magic towards any object you touch to confirm its property beforehand, nonetheless an object which comes through a dimensional magic you made, which is unstable from what I'm seeing." He flipped the Herbology book on his knee, which fell open on page 108.

"I will." Erlnier replied.

"No need. It's a portkey, word 'Jim', to Hills' Place, Apartment 101. As for why I've come, well, you should have realised by now, considering the increase of reports, that people are beginning to move. While Monsieur Chartres' death can be largely attributed to his carelessness, he ended up dead in England, when the French border was on lockdown and the English border tighter. While we know how he died, and where he died, we don't know who." 

Jason looked up from the book, "he also used another channel to visit, as there weren't any records of portkeys under his name, unless made illegally. Are you following?"

"I didn't consider-"

"I didn't expect you to consider that far. But now it's time for you to think, on how the Death Eaters across Europe are still trickling into England when Dumbledore's requested Europe's cooperation on all magical signatures crossing all borders."

Erlnier was positive his cheeks were aflame, but nodded quietly.

"Enjoy your night for today," Uncle Jason said as he placed the book back down, "and I've stabilised your dimension-space magic. Use it freely."

He winked out of existence.

Erlnier look down at his pants, which failed to look as crisp as Uncle Jason's.

...

Blaise wasn't surprised to see a bitter smile on Draco's face when he opened the door.

"Harry Potter's here." He said instead.

Draco looked at him with marginally surprised eyes, but they both knew Hermione had mentioned Harry Potter and Ron Weasley's potential visit several times, with a heavier emphasis on visit than potential.

"Well," Draco answered, "the twins should be having the time of their life, then."

"They're fighting."

Now Draco did look surprised, and Blaise slowly pulled his mouth into a grimace, opening the door wider.

"You guys were the ones who said Slytherins are ever so evil, Fred, stop talking over me!"

"What's a little house spirit, Ron, you can't say you haven't been arrogant to your friends either, or were the stories we heard about Hermione's first year adventure all a lie, brother?"

"Guys."

"I didn't know you would talk bad about me then, did I? Before a roomful of Slytherins, even? Should I have read your mind then? Or did you do whenever I wasn't here?"

"Ron."

"Oh, are you scared about your reputation now, little brother?"

"Good evening," Draco said, much softer than their shouts, "there's butter-beer. Luna told me this is what all Hogwarts students love?"

"Draco." Someone sighed in relief.

Draco turned to the nearest student, which happened to be Harry Potter.

"It's nice to meet you again, Potter. Please, introduce yourself to the group. Friends of friends are welcome, here, and there's positively nothing we know of you, I'm afraid, as rumours aren't to be trusted. Have you brought a friend too, perhaps?"

Harry Potter wasn't talking.

"He did, in fact," Blaise picked up the conversation, "there, Ron Weasley. Youngest brother of the Weasleys. We haven't had much time to get to know each other, but we've heard much delightful rumours of your braveness Headmaster Dumbledore frequently mentions, Ron. Is it alright if we all call you Ron?"

When the Gryffindors still refused to talk, Draco saw Marcus stand from the furthest chair.

He strolled up to the twins, Fred and George Weasley, smiled politely, then promptly shoved the two cupcakes he was holding in each hand in their eyes.

"Hi," Marcus said with an even wider smile, "I've seen you guys around."

The Hufflepuffs in the corner, being the innocent souls they were, gasped as loudly as they could.


	17. Chartres de Barr

"You should have been there, Luna," Draco whined into her lap later in the evening. She didn't respond, her eyes reading over pages of reports rapidly.

_"Aw, my eye!"_

_"My left eye!"_

_"My right eye!"_

_"Hey, you guys shoved icing down my pants at the end of second, it's only fair."_

_"I agree!" George cried, "but it hurts!" Fred finished._

_It was at this point Draco realised Marcus was drunk._

_"You fucking bastard!" Ron leapt, and landed a punch, quite squarely, on Marcus' cheek._

_Marcus was, unlike what Hogwarts students and staff alike believed, not a violent person. He was well-mannered enough to help carry the first year Slytherins' rucksack around the castle, polite enough to guide transfer students to their assigned classes, and motivated enough to study under Draco's tutelage despite being several grades higher. So as the twins cried their eyes out in the background, Draco held Ron Weasley back._

_"Ronald Weasley!" Marcus laughed at the room._

_"Marcus," Draco hissed, "you're not doing any favours."_

_"No, Draco. Gryffindors, mate, think we're horrible, terrible people. Don't you understand? They've bound us to a stereotype--" Marcus droned with a tense voice, his smile quivering as he held onto reason._

_"Marcus!" Blaise barked. "Mind your manners."_

_Ron's growl, however, and the twins' slack-jawed mouths only increased his anger._

_"But I'm done with their bullshit! I'm done with trying to explain my actions at every corner, to professors, to students, to them alike! Who do you think they'd side with," Marcus flung a finger at the twins, "who do you think the professors would question! Why do we cheat in Quidditch, why do stick to secret passages! Why!" Marcus breathed, "why do we find ourselves vulnerable at Hogwarts?"_

_His last words were more of a sigh, and a rattling breath at once. Perhaps his smile, which lasted throughout his rant, made the sight of his red-faced rage more distinct. Perhaps his words, which were too true to be voiced, made his trembling fists more just. The students gathered in the room held their breath._

_"This was meant to be a party for the Slytherins who're leaving, Marcus. And for some, their first official party amongst those who remain. To answer your question," Draco's voice carried wearily across the room, Ron lax in surprise in his grip, "Hogwarts is new to many, but also as reclusive. The British Wizarding World is reclusive. Do you understand?"_

_Marcus's breaths were still heavy. They waited, in silence, as his red skin turned a shade too pale once more. He finally nodded, and the students released their breaths. They watched him leave as soon as his eyes clashed against the twins', the door slamming voluntarily behind him._

_"Everyone," Draco sighed, "we'll have a meet-up party next year if time allows."_

_The Slytherins took that as their cue to leave. After them, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws filed out by rows, a few Ravenclaws nodding or brushing Draco's shoulder in reassurance. By the time Draco handed the twins a napkin, Harry Potter and his friend were furiously whispering to the side. He barely spared them a glance before Blaise grabbed his attention with a carefully lifted brow, to which he gently agreed to with an answering nod._

_"Wait."_

_Draco was at the end of his wits. He'd been in a poor mood since his uncle visited, but the party he'd first involved planning with Blaise had gone awry. He wanted, desperately, to leave and organise his thoughts. So if his smile was on the brink of annoyance, he understood why Harry Potter immediately took a step back._

_"Um. I just wanted to. Apologise."_

_"You've nothing to apologise for. We're all rather eager to go home as of late." He answered dutifully._

_"No, that's not what-"_

_"Draco," Blaise grabbed his shoulder, two empty bottles of wine in his hand, "we should go. Someone's going to tell the professor."_

_"Is that all the evidence?"_

_"Marcus was drinking before he arrived. This is what he finished here, before you came, and no-one had the chance to pull out their snacks. Now, hurry."_

_Draco walked towards the door, and paused. He turned, remembering Harry Potter's denial, and swept his gaze over the twins and Ron Weasley. If anything, Ron Weasley looked... contemplative. "Perhaps later, Harry Potter," Draco said as quickly as he could, "but yes. Thank you for apologising personally. If only the whole of Hogwarts would reconsider like you, then, it'd be a much positive atmosphere."_

"It was horrible." Draco complained, "although it's Marcus' fault for being drunk and ruining the party wholly, if only he abstained from pointing out such facts before the holidays. I doubt anyone would be able to make a positive goal next year, and the war's around the corner."

Luna patted his head as she thumbed through an accounting book.

"Besides, considering what Uncle Jason said, I might have been, like you said, lazy. Unwilling. I never thought myself so, but he sounded so disappointed I didn't think further, and, Luna, I should have. I would have had I been in Durmstrang-"

"He said he didn't expect you to. The only disappointment was with the violin, which I didn't notice either."

"Where do I start, Luna?" Draco flipped around, tilting Luna's book down with a finger.

They stared at each other.

"Why are you so scared of doing this alone when I'm meant to go with you?"

"Because if the trail leads outside of Britain, back to France, you'll have to stay."

She hadn't thought of that. They elapsed into silence once more. Luna quietly tangled their fingers together, and Draco buried his face into the pillow.

...

The children were led out of the castle in rows. _Most_ of the children were led out of the castle in rows under the protective eyes of the graduating year. Draco and Luna were at the lake, quietly watching the surface shimmed underneath the morning sunlight. They held a book between them, and were quietly fighting over the finances of lodging.

"The Hog's Head isn't a place for us. Luna, there's literally rats down there."

"But the Three Broomsticks is too well-known for both Hogwarts' students and professors alike. If we run into anyone, how are we to explain the unsupervised leave?"

"How about Bluckbert's. There will be some goblins, but they're fair and respectable."

"That place still has discrimination against wizards. It was their headquarters in 1612, Draco, you should know better-"

A hand landed on Draco's shoulder.

"Why-"

_"Merde!"_

It was a spell which casted Harry Potter a few meters through the air, and onto the ground on his ass. Probably a Flippendo, from the likes, but Ron couldn't tell how a single word (probably a swear from the sound of it) could display the same effects as a spell. He stared wide-eyed at the white haired git for a moment, until he was jolted out of his thoughts by Luna's shove to Harry's direction.

"Sorry," came the apology after a few minutes of recalibration on both sides, "truly, that was reflex."

"Yeah, I can tell." Harry said, all-forgiving. Ron snorted.

"Why aren't you with the others?" Luna asked.

"That's what we came to ask you, and. Uh," he turned to his friend, "I wanted to apologise," Ron intervened, saving Harry from his rapidly reddening skin, "for what happened yesterday. It was, unfortunate. I think."

Draco narrowed his eyes at Ron's specific choice of words.

"It was unfortunate. Have you seen Marcus?"

Ron shook his head.

"Well." Draco tilted his head, thought, and before Luna opened her mouth, continued. "Then we'd like to extend a second invitation, Hermione too. Did you happen to be accosted by her?"

"Accosted," Ron snorted, "yes, accosted."

Then he seemed to realise what, exactly, Draco was intending.

"You know," he said hesitantly, the red freckles across his cheek growing more pronounced underneath the sun, "I'd like to play a round of chess with you. Sometimes soon."

"Agreed." Draco said immediately, "I don't know how I missed this." He whispered in a smaller voice, "we will be staying at-"

"Bluckbert's." Luna added.

"Bluckbert's. We'll write."

"Are you two dating?" Harry blurted. Ron winced.

"No," Draco answered, "I thought we made it clear we are cousins by blood and siblings in name."

The atmosphere, unfortunately for Harry with his red-lit ears, grew more awkward.

"Well," Ron said quickly, "good-bye."

Draco turned back to Luna as soon as they were out of sight, his arms folded.

"Do we have everything?"

"We'll have to drop our things off at Bluckbert's, and I have Monsieur Chartres' bar address. Once we have Monsieur Chartres' tracks down, I have the addresses for all the checkpoints in Britain ready," she shook her accounting book, "so we'll comb over bank transfers first before dropping by each. There's 142 of them, we should be able to get through them in two weeks if the bank history eliminates some."

"Which leaves us with the whole of July to find out what Monsieur Chartres did." Draco sighed.

"To Bluckbert's?"

"To Bluckbert's."

They joined the crowd of leaving students, waved good-bye to Professor Flitwick and Professor Snape, and headed straight to the third road past Hogsmeade beside Knockturn Alley. They stuck to the alleys and had removed their Hogwarts uniform down to their shirts and pants by the second road.

"This is a horrible place to parkour." Draco noted as he stared down the rather pristine, flat building before him.

The third road, right before Knockturn, had an obvious difference in class like the slums in Paris, a building which stood out like a sore thumb amongst grey roofs. It had stained-glass windows, for the love of Morgana, and the entrance was protected in physical charms engraved into its walls. It was made, Draco realised upon a closer look, like a weaker disillusionment charm, in Gobbledegook.

They pushed through the golden, shining door.

"Is this really a lodge?" Luna questioned as she hurried down the empty corridor.

"It's my first time." Draco answered, shrugging.

_"Who is it."_

A small goblin, well, large for its kind, received them at the reception situated further inside the long, empty corridor. If it was seen to untrained eyes, no-one would have noticed that the walls itself were revolving doors. 

"Wow," Luna batted her eyes, "Gobbledegook."

_"Good morning. Are there any vacant rooms?" _Draco smiled. The goblin's eyes narrowed.

_"Yes."_

_"We would like to lodge here, please. I heard it's the best place for secrecy."_

The goblin stared at him for even longer._"Six galleons and two sickles a night. Services included."_

Draco's eyes grew wide.

_"Thank you."_

The goblin smiled, although it was horrifying, and handed them a key.

_"Room 36."_

Once they headed in the direction of their room, pushing through the sixth wall on the right, Luna squirmed her arm into Draco's. "What did he say?"

"Six galleons and two sickles a night." Draco whispered, vibrating.

Luna also vibrated in surprise, as she visibly mumbled numbers under her breath. "You just saved us 110 galleons," she concluded, pride melting off her tone. "Your language studies paid off."

(They would come to know, in time, that the goblin receptionist decided fees at his own violation. Rather, he was tasked to do so, and he found Draco's knowledge of Gobbledegook rather admirable considering his age, and had shaved four galleons off the average price.)

...

They travelled down to the bar. Knockturn was cold, but they sighted children, often, ragged and disheveled, which relieved their tension. 

The bar didn't have a name. The door was small, and the place looked like a remodelled house more than a shop of any kind, but they pushed through nonetheless and nearly tripped over a stool. The bar was crowded, stinky, and to the misfortune of Draco's boots, was littered with liquids of any and all kinds.

The bartender was as pretty as Aunt Vivian, Draco noted, and as scary, if her glare was anything to go by.

"This place isn't for kids," she smiled as she leaned over the booth towards them. They'd seated themselves on the stool.

"We know," Draco answered, "but there's a fond explanation: Don't judge a book by its cover. I need to ask you something."

The woman snorted.

Draco placed two galleons on the table.

"We're going to play a game. If you answer incorrectly, I'll take double the galleons off the table. If you answer correctly, I'll add two a question. Of course, you can invite others to play, and divide the share as you wish. No, you cannot rob me of these, because I'm pulling these out of charmed wallets which recognises ownership. Agreed?"

Her dark green eyes gleamed underneath the low-hanging candle-light. 

"And if it's a half-truth?"

"One galleon added, but if the following answer's a lie, five galleons removed."

The woman laughed.

"So I either end up with nothing at all," she said, her eyes still fixed on Draco, "or I lose all my credibility with the customers and gain everything you have."

"I did mention you could involve others and make shares. I have ten or more questions." Draco smiled innocently, "besides, what credibility is there to speak of in any society?"

The men behind him suddenly cheered. "Taysa! Take him up on'it!"

"Yeah, we'll help. Just spare us a dozen!" They bursted out into raucous laughter. Taysa, apparently, pondered for a moment more as she tapped a finger on the bar.

"Let's try three, first."

Draco took back both galleons, held one between his fingers, and shook it as he leaned forward. "First question: June second of this month, what time did the two visit?"

"What kind of question is that," Taysa snapped, "what two?"

They stared at each other in silence. Draco smiled, and closed his fist.

"Second question. Tell me one name that was mentioned in their conversation that wasn't their own."

Taysa blinked.

"I know the answer to that," a low voice behind him rumbled, "Bertha Jorkins."

Draco hummed, and placed a galleon back down on the bar.

"Third question. What was the main subject of their conversation?"

"Memory charms." Taysa blurted.

Two galleons were stacked.

"Are we continuing?"

The entire bar was silent by then, but aside from the maniac gleam in some of the men's eyes and a soft hum coming from Luna, no-one protested. Draco gave a sweeping glance.

"Fourth question: Who looked better dressed?"

"Both." Taysa replied, her cheek twitching and her mouth holding back a smile. There was a total of five galleons, now.

"Fifth, did they seem close, or was it business? By this, I'm asking for their atmosphere, not the nature of their relationship."

"No. They suddenly placed a silencing charm, and neither made a gesture of inquiry or curiosity. The frenchman grew more teasing, and the other upset."

Seven galleons.

"Sixth. What did they order?"

Taysa looked confused, but answered dutifully.

"The frenchman ordered an Irish fire-whisky. The other just straight beer, an original of this house."

Nine galleons. The man in the corner snickered.

"Seventh question. Who left the bar first?"

"Ah, I know that," an old woman by the window rasped, "Crouch left first."

Every single pair of eyes in the bar swung to her.

"Oh? I'd supposed but not been certain. It was supposed to be my eighth question. Regardless, out of my good heart, madam. One more galleon."

Ten galleons swayed precariously.

"Why one?" Taysa snapped.

"She didn't specify which Crouch."

Although there was only one Crouch who could visit such a bar and leave unscathed, no-one bothered arguing.

"Ninth question. Which part of the frenchman did he ruin first? His eyes, or his ears?"

"His eyes." Taysa drawled.

Twelve galleons swayed, and poured across the table.

"Last question. Where did you put his belongings?"

Taysa's eyes snapped to his, and narrowed. She debated the price of the frenchman's belongings to the galleons on the table, and flicked her wand.

"Fine." She agreed, and out floated a notebook, pen, and wallet from behind the counter.

Draco placed the last two, and clapped his hands.

"Brilliantly done, Miss Taysa. It was nice to meet you. Let's do this again sometime soon."

Taysa snorted as she beckoned the man and lady over.

"I'm older than you, mister Malfoy. Regardless, it was entertaining. I wouldn't protest a second."

Draco gave a sweeping bow to the bar at large, its furniture grey, humid, and run-down. Luna leapt off her chair, shoving everything into her bag, and they walked out, one after another to the watchful gaze of dozens.

"It's been a while." The man said as he counted two galleons off the table. The old lady held one preciously in her grasp.

"Yes," Taysa agreed, "it's been a while."

That kid would never realise, she thought, how humane he treated them. How the politeness they experienced in that brief interaction of a tension-filled half an hour was the only contact they had with someone outside of Knockturn that year. Taysa looked down at the coins. He wasn't bound by stereotypes, she realised as she counted eleven into her purse, he assumed they were moralistic enough not to fight over money. He assumed they were kind enough to not attack him, a young one.

She wondered.

...

Draco flopped onto the bed.

"To summarise. Bartemius Crouch is the person at hand, here, as she mentioned Bertha Jorkins who's an auror under Ludo Bagman. He's the only government personnel who could possible walk in there and back out alive. There was a mention of memory charms, which, considering the mention of Bertha Jorkins, she is the subject of in either a positive or negative effect. Bartemius Crouch killed Monsieur Chartres who decided not to help him out, considering the teasing we know as mocking Miss Taysa saw. We should presume, then, Bertha Jorkins is a crucial part of this interaction."

"The notes indicate they were mentor and student," Luna said as she leaned back on a chair, flipping through the notebook, "They apparently knew each other from work, when Monsieur Chartres first entered diplomatic service of auror cooperations for the centurial seminar of the International Confederation of Wizards, and remained his mentor through several letters. Besides, Monsieur Chartres wasn't planning to stay in England, he only remained another day because Bartemius Crouch requested a meeting."

"So this was entirely Bartemius Crouch's anger issue?"

"Possibly."

"Where's Bertha Jorkins?"

"I need to pour through records," Luna sighed, "these papers are duplicates of each and every wand tracked throughout England. This stack, are those registered by aurors and reported to and by the auror division. You have no idea how much I suffered categorising them. Bertha's name should be in either, somewhere."

The two towers of paper were much less pleasing to him than the comfort of the bed. Draco sighed.

"It's a miracle how they managed to place one of us into their records division," Luna idly wondered fluttering ten pages at a time, "wasn't that place all about high security and stuff?"

"The and-stuff is what got Mr. Zaxter in," Draco said, sitting up to reach for a small portion regardless, "Mr. Zaxter's been a researcher of 'light' magic. He can't get more 'pure' than that, in their standards. Single, from what the papers indicate, no friends, no family, no neighbours. Except for the security part they failed to indulge, he fulfilled all the conditions of what 'solo' requirements they had. Besides, he's seventy. Just old enough to get in, and young enough for them to accept his passion."

"Hm," Luna hummed.

"Yes, it's obvious they performed some kind of security check, but you know how reliant the Ministry is on veritaserum. It's been ages since the States made a counter-agent but, well."

They stayed up until the candled burned itself out.

...

_5th July, 1994_

Draco woke to a burning ache for tea. Of course the goblins' lodging had pristine services and high-quality black tea of second flush. When he asked whether he could take a tray up personally, they'd even allowed magic. There was a letter on the tray when he did receive it, sealed and unhandled, which they replied to Draco's questioning glance, his eagle arrived. And, apparently, groomed as a service.

When Draco entered the room, it was to Luna hanging from the ceiling, by her neck, and swaying like the dead. The tray floating behind him dropped a foot before he recasted the spell in time. Nothing shattered, he turned back to her swaying hair and rubbed his temple.

He closed his eyes, and counted to three.

"_No_," he decided, "English Breakfast, or Darjeeling, Luna?"

"Darjeeling, please," Luna answered as she pulled herself off the rope. The burn marks around her pale throat stood starkly out against her white summer dress. "With half the milk and half a teaspoon of honey."

"For the love of Merlin," he said as he carefully lowered the tray to their table, "could you not experiment in the mornings?"

"But the magic of a hanging body seems to leave more rapidly than during the night, brother." She protested.

It made sense.

"Merlin and Morgana." He muttered.

"Have you checked how the pile of bones is doing in Albania?"

Draco turned a sharp glance at her.

"He's moved. Miss Rachel's left an imperiused Dugbog to track after him."

"Moved where?"

"He's currently in Albania's Prokletije, specifically the South of Maja Jezercë." Draco said as he re-interpreted the letter Pot brought with him.

"And your plans for today?"

Draco grimaced. The papers he finished rifling through this morning had indicated Bertha Jorkins was on leave for holiday, moreover, towards Albania.

"Luna," he started, bracing for a fight, "Bertha Jorkin's in Albania."

She stared.

"Not that I'm desperate to leave," Draco continued, rubbing his face, "but once I have everything, and by that, the circumstances which lead up to Bartemius Crouch's decision in detail and Monsieur Chartres' line of movement, then I'll leave. To Albania. You don't look worried, should I be offended or happy?"

"Draco. You know there's an illegal portkey at Paralia Legrenon. He's heading towards us, not further. You're more likely to arrive in Albania the moment he leaves. Unless," Luna stepped closer threateningly, "you're planning to see him with your own eyes."

"I'm not mad," Draco rolled his eyes. "Monsieur Chartres, Bartemius Crouch, Bertha Jorkins, and Volly. What connects them when three are anti-Death Eaters? That's something I need answered."

Instead of leading in with Bertha Jorkins like he originally planned, Draco thought, he'd have to lead in with Monsieur Chartres.

...

If there was anything Chartres de Barr hated more than Vivian, it was the government. A government of school, politics, or communities, whatever it was, he hated it. Perhaps due to his own inferiority he always begrudged, whenever he was made to visit such a place, he always bought a newspaper to find any criticisms he could pour on their functions and abilities in a pub. Not any pub, either, but ones he could enter with his name and built in a finer establishment.

It was silence which greeted Erlnier when he first met Chartres de Barr, his beady eyes assessing and his wrinkled face creasing into dissatisfaction. He didn't have the urge to prove himself, as he usually would have wanted, and instead grimaced back. They had not seen each other since.

To say Earlier didn't know any of Chartres de Barr's interests and dislikes was an overstatement. He heard plenty from Aunt Vivian's slander. Perhaps it was luck which brought him to think of pubs, a guess made from Chartres' visit to the bar in Knockturn. Bartemius Crouch may have brought him to a pub in Knockturn, but Chartres was a man who liked appearances.

He would have chosen a posh pub had the choice been left to him.

Or so Erlnier guessed.

He leaned against the chair, and sighed.

"Not this one either."

Clair hummed in agreement.

"You should still ask."

Erlnier sighed again, and hailed down table service. It was tradition to walk up to the bar, no matter how posh it was, but this was the kind of gastro pub too expensive for anyone of any standing. Except for the old money.

"Have you any French dishes?"

"I'm 'fraid we only carry one 'ere. Ch'ken fricasse."

"If your cook can make a Chicken Fricassee, I'm sure the cook can make a Quiche Lorraine."

"But like I said, we ain't-"

"Ask the cook."

"But-"

"Ask."

The guy huffed, and walked off. Luna slid out of her seat, walked out of sight, and tailed him to the kitchen.

"Someone's askin' if you can make a French dish. Qui-she Lo'ain or somethin'."

"What's up with these French people?" The cook, a very strong-looking woman with purple streaked hair, thumped her knife on the board. The board split in half. "One demands a Coq au Vin, another demands a Quiche Lorraine, do I _look French!_ Coq au Vin! _Coq au Vin!_"

"I don'think this one's goin' away either."

"Well _I'll _get this one _out._"

Luna sped back to her seat.

"We were wrong," she spoke gently, "Coq au Vin."

Draco stalled, then smiled.

"It was worth being rude everywhere." He commented as he watched a very tall, knife-wielding woman stomp his way.

She stabbed the knife down.

Their table gave an ominous crack.

"Who do you think you are," she snarled, "to demand a Quiche Lorraine?"

Although he was surprised by her accurate French, Draco smiled in response.

"I'm sorry for being impolite. I had to ask you something, and thought the fastest route would be to use a cook's temper against the cook." He dissolved his magic, his black hair turning back to pale platinum and his eyes back to grey.

The cook pulled out her knife as easily as she embedded, and snarled.

"Well I'm here. Talk."

"The Frenchman who came before us," Luna intervened, her red hair fading from sight, "can you explain what he did? What he said?"

The cook seemed slightly startled at both of their young ages. Her voice grew even gruff, although she removed the knife from their sight.

"He said he wanted Coq au Vin, and he better have Coq au Vin, because he has a precious guest we can't even dream of meeting in our lives. Tried to rent this whole place out, too, but we run a pub, me family, not a French restaurant, yeah?"

"Of course. I'm sorry to have disturbed you from your job. Or any prior offence, in fact. Did you happen to see this guest of his?"

The woman snorted.

"No. But a person who's "high and important" enough would be one of the ministers for said Frenchman. Do you know him?" Her gaze turned suspicious.

"He's my grandfather," Draco intervened, "he was found dead in Knockturn Alley."

The woman looked even more startled, and she visibly calmed.

"Well," she spat, "good riddance."

"Thank you." Draco replied.

"The pork pie's on me."

She stomped back.

"What a nice lady." Luna said as she reached for her drink.


	18. Millicent Bagnold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, your comments and kudos brighten my day : )

_Good afternoon Mr. Zimman,_

_I'm Erlnier, part-time counter boy from the flower shop?_

_The order you placed, the largest, most pristine bouquet of orange lilies, ran unfortunately out of stock on the 1st and 2nd of June due to a Frenchman's love for his wife. It was quite the drama, I'll tell you more if you ever come by._

_Please write back for changes._

_\- Erlnier_

Zaxter Zimman groaned. He took his glasses off his nose, rubbed his eyes with a palm, and groaned again.

"What's wrong?"

He glanced at his colleague.

"There's no respect for the elderly these days."

His colleague, Agatha, bursted out into laughter.

"You're not old! You're 73."

"I feel old," Zaxter groaned as his bones cracked. He stood precariously hunched, "I look old. I am old."

"You miserable soot," Agatha giggled.

Zaxter grumbled as he hobbled down the rows of bookshelves, past the door, and into the next room. There was a list, an endless roll of paper from ceiling to floor, curled around machines and stamping presses which rolled, and rolled, and continued whirling overhead. He raised his wrinkled fingers to the nearest roll and unfurled one. He glanced at the tip, its very left-most edge, and rolled it back up.

The rolls overhead were made of black metal but enchanted with magic. The paper which rolled endlessly out of a larger roll the size of an elephant on the floor was led up, towards the left ceiling, ran through a paper-presser which straightened its creases, and dragged towards the right. A puncher hung from the right ceiling, a tank of ink beneath, and names were continuously stamped on, alongside times and dates.

It fell to the floor, then, where an enchanted rolling machine was spinning, a magical pair of scissors floating overhead, which sliced every month to establish a month's worth of minister's records.

The entire contraception and provided room was first made to quell any fights between ministers and representatives as to who-did-what and whose-credit-is-this, depending on the time they were in a certain location. 

Most strangely, their notes which they received in and during that time period was collected by the end of the month (trash wasn't considered trash in the Ministry), and magically fastened to each name and time stamp. Apparently all the notes in the Ministry was charmed, or something, but Zaxter never asked.

"Zaxter!" Agatha called, "don't sleep in there again!"

"I'm not." Zaxter grated his voice out as long as he could, "totally."

The door slammed behind him. Agatha's laughter chased him in.

The room wasn't sound-proof, and he didn't bother casting a silencing spell either. He was a cautious man, Zaxter Zimman, and tended not to use magic in the building. The rows of archives, of records of wands and policies to its writers was often filled by the mindless chatter of workers bored out of their minds. And they were all in their 70's, or 80's, one was a 109, which meant their deaf ears and louder voices made it loud. Louder than one would expect.

No-one bothered him in the Stamp-Room. To them, the papers which strung from ceiling to floor was a sorry sight, and the machine which whirled the papers into rolls were too loud. Somehow, there was always a fault to find within the room, for most save him and Agatha, who were tasked to switch in blank paper rolls when necessary. And to his due, he did his job of sorting records into place very well by giving more effort and precision than anyone, but only well with enough sleep.

The door, as it was bound to, snapped into lock exactly ten seconds from when it closed.

It gave many people trouble, but not now, or nowadays. It only closed when he 'slept'.

Zaxter Zimman's back straightened, his eyes grew focused, and he pushed his white hair back.

"That kid," he mumbled with a stronger voice, "he thinks it's easy, doesn't he?"

He strode forward towards the third roll, and narrowed his eyes at the left corner. He snorted, and rolled it back up.

The fourth.

The fifth.

"Ah, June. June...1st, yes. Hm. Flowers, Frenchman, here we are. Chartres? Chartres de Barr, Ministry of Magic, level B3. Orange lilies, orange lilies. Hmm."

Zaxter Zimmer's eyes widened fractionally, but he ruled over his expression.

"Kid," he muttered, "I hope you manage."

_Dear Erlnier,_

_I'm sorry to hear that your best crop of orange lilies died. Or rotted._

_The ministry's a busy place. Imagine working three meters underground, kid. It's horrible condition for an old man like me, especially around June 1st when it gets humid. Consider making me one of Roses, and I'll try to drop by again._

_Merci._

"Rose?" Draco repeated as he frowned at the note. "Who is a rose?"

"Rose is the highest ranking flower in the world of flowers. Most meanings, most beauty, and most scent." Luna yawned from her chair.

They had been looking over bank records. When Draco didn't reply, she looked up.

"Brother?"

"Monsieur Chartres met up with 'the highest person of the Ministry'. Died and rotted, he says, which means whoever this is, is a corpse by now. Ministry B3 is where the courtroom is. That only indicates Miss Millicent."

Luna gnawed at her lips.

"But Miss Millicent died on the." Luna halted. "_Oh_. She died on the third of June."

"No, she was _found dead_ on the third of June."

_"Oh."_

They both dropped silent.

"Monsieur Chartres came over on the 1st of June. He died after meeting Bartemius Crouch on the 2nd. Millicent Bagnold was found dead on the 3rd."

"No," Luna suddenly shot up from her seat, "Monsieur Chartres came over on the 1st of June. He died after meeting Bartemius Crouch on the 2nd. Millicent Bagnold was found dead on the 3rd when _we caught Pettigrew_."

"And Pettigrew was missing from the 1st to the 2nd." Draco's voice grew faint as he thought.

"This means Millicent Bagnold was alive on the 1st, and died on the 2nd. Monsieur Chartres met Bartemius Crouch nearer evening, so why did he want to meet someone in the restaurant on the 2nd?"

"Which means-"

"Millicent Bagnold headed died on the 2nd on her way to meet Monsieur Chartres at the restaurant!"

"Wait." Draco help up his hand, and shoved Luna down with his other.

"Deep breaths."

They breathed.

"We don't know," Draco said slowly, "when Monsieur Chartres was planning to meet Miss Millicent. She could have headed out earlier, or later, and their meeting could have been appointed for far later in the evening. Monsieur Chartres is enough of a man to do that. We also don't know where, or how Peter Pettigrew plays into this. We unfortunately do not have an auror in our midst to steal the reports, and Mr. Zimman who cannot access said information. 

We must also consider the fact it's too much a coincidence for Bertha Jorkins to be at Albania right now. Tracking down Peter Pettigrew in two days won't be easy either. We have five people to consider: Monsieur Chartres, Bertha Jorkins, Bartemius Crouch, Peter Pettigrew, and Millicent Bagnold."

"Six," Luna amended, "Volly."

They collapsed into silence, collecting their wits.

"Who do you think knows most of what happened on the 2nd?" Draco opened the conversation again.

"...aurors."

She looked at him with visible worry.

"Can you?"

"It's not hard to catch an auror," Erlnier said as he closed his eyes, "it's hard to get the information out of them."

"...Will you?"

Draco grimaced.

_Aunt Vivian grabbed the man's hair, and tilted it back too gently for a woman who just told him to use the man as target practice._

_"He's a man who raped a mother of three," she said as though she was reading a dictionary, "and took the eldest of the three, a young, beautiful daughter, as his wife by force, and killed the other two brothers. He later told his wife he buried them underneath the floorboards of her room, and took her life too, a year later, but buried her in his walls. He was completely sane when he did everything, and enjoyed killing them while looking into their eyes."_

_Draco's hand trembled._

_"He's a man who's been in Azkaban for a decade now, nearly soul-less. You know how to cast an Imperius. Now, it's time for you to learn the Cruciatus and Avada Kedavra."_

_"Aunt Vi-"_

_"You've always acted as though you were a cold, emotionless soldier of my making," Aunt Vi continued, "but that's an act. You childhood's unblemished. One day, Erlnier, you'll wish you were acting. Now. May this be the only tarnish on your unparalleled happiness, the foundation for you to grow on when situations grow out of control."_

_She walked around the man. Her smooth, cold hands ran up his wrist and closed around his trembling fist which pointed limply towards the man's silent body, and her feet knocked his into the proper stance. A wizard ready to fight. A knight ready to charge._

_"Let's begin."_

Luna leaned forward and closed her hands around his own.

"No, yeah, I can. Will."

"Whatever you do," Luna's voice drifted over, "remember we don't have to. We have a choice."

Draco sucked in a breath.

"Yeah. Alright. Let's try asking around first."

"Plan?"

"We don't have anything more to gain out of Monsieur Chartres aside from what he wanted from Miss Millicent. That's not very important, either. We should lead on from Bartemius Crouch."

"Bartemius Crouch," Luna repeated, "how?"

"He has a wife. He's alive, most importantly. If he knows anything, did anything, the people around him should know too. Combing through his tracks shouldn't be hard."

Luna pressed her mouth shut.

"You'll do it alone?"

"You need to sort through the Death Eaters' bank records."

She didn't deny.

Draco shook off the needles on his foot from leaning on it for too long. The chair beneath his arm creaked as he moved away.

"As for my dad." Draco started as he slid a fresh shirt on.

"I won't be partial, but I won't re-consider either, brother. He's the person who sent us gifts and threw us birthday parties."

"...Sorry. He's just. He's my dad."

"I know."

...

_Cling._

"Good morning, good sir! What can I get you today?"

"Good morning. One vanilla espresso, and a Fairy Periwinkle sandwich please."

The tall, brown-haired man smiled at the bartender, curling his fingers around his glasses and lowering it to clean. The handkerchief was silk.

"Going somewhere?" The bartender asked.

The man tilted his glasses as he placed it back on his nose to the exact degree and smiled.

"I have a meeting with Mr. Bartemius Crouch this evening. I've been nervous all morning."

"Well you're a lucky one!" The bartender snapped a mug down, "Mr. Crouch's been busy the entire month, he barely sends me a greeting!"

"Really? Tell me more, please. I wouldn't want to disturb him during our meeting and potentially offend him. You must know him very well."

"Well," the bartender placed his hands on his hip, "he may take his tea at his office, but I assure you, his daily dose is always taken care of here. Every morning, I tell you. But since last month's end and this, he's been busy to the point he asks for owl deliveries. Of my coffee! Last I asked, he told me too many people need his help for the...Quidditch! Quidditch Finals that's coming up."

"Ah," the man leaned in and whispered, "and the Triwizard Tournament?"

"You know of it? Well, that makes this easier. So many's been calling him left and right, he told me, you know how it is. The Ministry's always short on everything. Told me he can't bear to go another day without my coffee, and mine's the rarest from Ethiopia."

"Sounds marvellous. I'll keep any advice in mind."

"Don't mention Hogwarts. Or any school for that matter. Very stressed, the man, very stressed."

"Of course. Thank you. I'll be sure to mention your concerns."

...

_Clatter._

"Merlin's balls, I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking."

"Oh, it's fine, it's fine, help me put these back up, won't you dear."

"Of course. What a front, mister, I've only ever seen "The Art of Aurology" in Korea before. Even there it's taken in high regard. Have you seen Mahoutokoro's "Being Efficient"? Everything of Japan's express magical post system's as good. Second-hand books are valuable indeed."

"I have, and I have one right there. I've not seen a smart young man like you around. From Hogwarts, eh?"

The sandy-blond haired boy nodded. His blue eyes were alight in curiosity.

"You've got "Being Efficient"? What about China's "Colour Schematics and Voices"?"

"In there." The man pointed.

"I'll save up enough, mister," the young boy exclaimed as he stacked more books back on the stall, "I'll buy them when I've enough. I've been helping out Mother around the house. She'll give me some, I'm sure. She's a friend of Mister Crouch too, and Mr. Crouch always gives me two knuts."

"Mr. Crouch?" The man asked, surprised.

"Well, Mr. Crouch says he do-nay-tes to the orphanage, but he likes me best. So he gives me two knuts every-time he visits."

"I see."

"Do you know Mr. Crouch, mister?"

"Why yes. I do. He passes this store everyday on his way to work, and he's a man who takes the security of Hogsmeade very seriously. My store's the closes to Knockturn, so he makes sure to give a glance."

"Isn't it dangerous in Knockturn? Does Mr. Crouch go there everyday?"

"It's his job, child. I saw him visit Knockturn in night, last week I'd think. The man's too serious for his own good."

"Last week? You mean, a few days ago?"

"No, well, last month?"

"Last month?"

"I'm not so sure. Anyways, he's visited more frequently than I've seen him."

...

Erlnier stood before Bartemius Crouch's house, and wrapped the invisibility cloak tighter around him. The lights were on. There was an elf visibly and audibly making sounds in the kitchen, unlike what usual house elves would have done, trembling even as she rubbed her rags against the table and snapping fingers as fast as she could.

Whoever that elf was, she wasn't bound to the house. Erlnier could feel no hereditary magic radiating off her no matter how he concentrated. Instead he felt a distinct magic signature from her. Unlike Kreacher, who served the House of Black for generations and tried to uphold its values by trusting Regulus Black, she was bound under ownership loyal to none but one. And it wasn't Bartemius Crouch.

Bartemius Crouch was on the second floor.

Erlnier breathed out quietly.

"Come on," he whispered a good few feet from the house, "let me _hear you._"

The magic tricked carefully into the window, away from the elf, away from the first floor.

"-brought this on myself-I would have been the Minster of Magic. Bertha Jorkins wouldn't have-"

Bartemius Crouch, from what Erlnier remembered, began organising the Triwizard Tournament as a potential elect to the Minister of Magic. He was shunted to the Head of Department of International Magical Cooperation instead of remaining in the Minister's cabinet because of said project, which allowed him nothing but the mere meagre power to finish organising what he began. 

Without the Quidditch World Cup coming in time for his authority to rule over, he wouldn't have had his name mentioned in society or the papers, leaving him an office paper-pusher for the Triwizard Tournament instead. It's been years since he began planning for the Triwizard Tournament, albeit in idea, and to only have it acknowledged now as the Head of International Magical Cooperation...

Erlnier was _interested_.

His innate curiosity to simply poke his nose in where it doesn't belong, the certain brand of madness within all Blacks, reared its head compelling him to remain. Bartemius Crouch's story had always interested him, but his words, now, captivated him.

"-your poor mother-"

Erlnier's gnawed on his cheek. His wife?

He settled where he stood, in the middle of the road before Crouch's house.

"-your mother-"

_Your _mother?

Erlnier breathed in. Even in the midst of his sharp intake, his gaze flickered to the house elf's puttering to check whether his breath had been noticed, and realising he hadn't been, he pressed the air through his teeth silently.

_Your mother._

Erlnier brought the cloak tighter around himself, and shuffled a step forward. He knew better than to keep his gaze ahead, he kept it down to find patches of blank spots on the road, his feet moving from heel to toe. He didn't know if the house had wards, or spells, which was why he'd been so far, but this was news. Information he didn't think he'd attain. _Your. Your_ mother.

"-shouldn't be. Winky!"

The elf snapped upstairs.

Erlnier moved rapidly around the house, towards the side where there wasn't grass, minding his feet and stepping on the smallest pebbles, before landing right underneath a tree. There, he casted a levitation spell on himself to keep his feet or body imprint off the ground, and spelled the invisibility cloak into a durable stiffness. A double concealment charm on himself within the cloak with several whispers, and he floated there securely, unseen.

He was further from the side where Bartemius Crouch seemed to reside and monologue, but it was a better place for his stakeout.

"Get me my case. No, the black one, Winky."

There was a rustle of papers, and Erlnier settled.

...

There were four things Erlnier found out while staking out at Crouch's house for a day and a half.

One, his son was alive_, Imperiused._

Two, his elf was extremely loyal to his son.

Three, Crouch was extremely loyal to the Ministry.

Four, Bartemius Crouch had an unknown intruder in his house recently which fled in fright.

If Crouch were to succeed Cornelius Fudge, Erlnier calculated, he would make a fine leader during the war. He was suspicious of everything and everyone, double and tripled checked his own work, and gave no lee-way to the people around him but more to his political enemies. It turned out that Crouch had allowed himself to be kicked aside, if anything, to Cornelius Fudge because he was a political enemy. Keep your enemies close wasn't his motto, it was: Keep everyone close and be suspicious.

And it seemed he was only ever so stricter on his son because he loved him. Bartemius Crouch fed his son dinner, released the Imperius once a day under bind and Incarcerous to convince a change of mind, and often sought his wife. His actions would have been touching had he reasonably kept his son in Azkaban and done so instead.

As for the intruder, Erlnier sighed, carefully moving his levitation off Crouch's grounds, that was something he had to think on.

"Wait," Luna lowered her tea, "why do you need to think on an intruder?"

"Because I think it might be Peter Pettigrew."

Draco ran the marble through his fingers, and didn't bother picking it up when it rolled across the floor. He rubbed the towel strongly into his hair once more, and waved the closet open with a hand to eye his clothes for the day.

"Why do you think it's Peter Pettigrew?"

"Crouch Junior was known to be devoted follower of Voo-doo. If there was an intruder which approached the house with ill-intent, with the kind of magic Bartemius Crouch has and his ownership over Winky, the house elf, both should have noticed. But Bartemius Crouch and his elf didn't notice until sounds came from his son's room, which means someone went there to approach his son for help or pleasantries. Neither seems possible, does it? So whoever it was didn't have enough magic to be noticed, at all."

"And the only important missing person on our list which had such minimal magic is Peter Pettigrew. I see."

"Well," Draco said, buttoning up a shirt, "we've enough on Bartemius Crouch for now. It's time to track down Peter Pettigrew's course of movement from his house."

"I've a spell I want to try."

Draco raised a brow, shoving a foot in his pants.

"Appare Vestigium."

Draco pulled up his socks.

"Well," he said twisting his watch, "as long as it saves me time."

They slid out of the building, giving the front goblin a friendly greeting in Gobbledegook even Luna managed to learn, and walked down Hogsmeade. Luna bought a chain of walnuts along the way, which they ate, and Draco a matching pair of bracelets made of black dragon-hide. They bought more, like the sack of sweet potatoes they decided to ask the goblins to bake in the oven later, and Unicorn-dung tasting sandwiches which weren't so bad.

They ambled past Bartemius Crouch's house, which was empty. But they turned past the house next to his, into the corner alley where the block ended. Spelling their hands clean Draco flicked out the disillusionment and silencing charms with a grunt.

"Ready?"

Luna breathed in, out, concentrated with her hands raised together like a prayer, and repeated:

"Appare Vestigium."

Nothing happened visibly. But Draco felt the surge of magic from her, radiating across the street, and he held his breath hoping none would notice. The spell, from what he knew, concealed nothing of what they were doing. He only hoped Winky the house elf was further within the house.

"There." Luna whispered, dragging his attention back towards the slowly materialising flickering gold flakes.

"Where?"

Luna dragged him out onto the street. There wasn't much in broad daylight, where people were off at work and most elders were gossiping in rocking chairs. She crouched next to a narrow storm drain and pointed.

"It's appearing."

Truly, was a rat appearing in a burst of gold shadow in their sight. It moved out of the pipe of Bartemius Crouch's house, squeaking, fearful, and sprinting. They followed, until Luna's range ended.

"How many more times can you cast this?" Draco asked, despite knowing the answer.

"Three, if I push myself."

"That's south of Hogsmeade," Draco began to mutter, "towards Knockturn. He would have taken the fastest way, which is four streets down from Knockturn's brim and two blocks to the potions store. But as a rat..."

Draco tilted his head.

"Let's try the herbal store."

They moved down five streets towards the herbal store, and Luna would have casted had Draco not pulled her back.

"No, cast it here. At the intersection."

She frowned, but agreed.

"Vestigium."

They waited a few seconds under the interested glances of several men and women who lined the streets.

"There."

Peter Pettigrew, the _man_, walked towards the right dragging his fingers along the walls and stained windows. They didn't question why he was a man, as he clutched his side while limping. Draco recalled the moment he landed a _Confringo _ on him, on it, and smiled.

"Apothecary."

They moved.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the apothecary was closed. It seemed to have toed a line of illegality that shouldn't have been crossed, as the ministry's notice of closure was stuck to its window. Another red line crossed its door, a mark of imprisonment and indication of ministry and auror investigation. It was more likely to, however, be left abandoned in Knockturn for another year before residents of Knockturn begin to tear it down for their uses.

"Should I?"

"Yes."

_"Okay."_

The gold dust appeared as soon as she agreed, and there, Peter Pettigrew entered. 

The shadow was stronger than they's seen when Luna casted it near Crouch's house. It grew more effective the closer it was to the time it happened, it seemed, and Draco debated its uses. He caught the corner of a face turning in, and shouted.

"Wait, Luna, that's Miss Millicent!"

"What?"

"Didn't you see?" Draco whirled around as the dust settled, "that was Miss Millicent!"

"No, I _didn't_."

The spell recasted, albeit weakly, Luna moved to stand next to Draco to see what he was pointing at, and there, right after the shadow of Peter Pettigrew barely dissipated, was a brief flicker of Millicent Bagnold.

"Merlin," she breathed, "then the red line's for..."

"That's a line of investigation for murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's chart I made for the sequence of events. I thought it was a little confusing reading it in writing myself no matter how much I made it clear. I hope this link works:
> 
> https://www.wattpad.com/986750144-the-heights-of-draco-malfoy-millicent-bagnold/page/2
> 
> It has the chart, if you want to see, from June 1-3 of their discoveries.


	19. Notice: Not an Update

I've recently read posts of many authors leaving Ao3 due to its more darker nature, and how it's bordering dangerous levels.

In times like this, where racism, hate, and self-defence is the first in our minds, I believe fan fictions should embrace a lighter nature.

I'm not saying BDSM, sex, and obsession stories are bad. I've read some myself. I'm saying there's some which goes "above and beyond", including children, gore, blood, non-consent and worse resulting from those genres.

This is fiction. Fiction, where magic, the impossible, and fantasy abounds, shouldn't be described as "vulgar and explicit content". I'm not saying shipping is bad, but I think there are lines we shouldn't cross. They are indefinite lines, but lines which our moral dictates.

We shouldn't be bringing more harm to others though words. Words are precious things which can change a person's life with one encouragement, and one acknowledgement.

It's sad, because Ao3 became my most loved platform over a short time span. It's full of unique and interesting ships of pairs I never imagined.

I think I'll keep writing, to finish this once I get through the writer's block. It'll probably be on Blogger under Sivjulicat too.

I know I don't have a large reader's pool on this fic, so I don't think it'll matter anyways.

바이바이. 잘 있어.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://sivjulicat.blogspot.com  
or  
https://www.wattpad.com/story/146590807-the-heights-of-draco-malfoy


End file.
